


through the silent wood

by summerofspock



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Angst and Humor, Depressed Aziraphale (Good Omens), Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Eventual Romance, Fantasy, Fey Crowley, Horror Elements, Human Aziraphale (Good Omens), M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Shapeshifter Crowley (Good Omens), Snake Crowley (Good Omens), Suicidal Thoughts, Supernatural Elements, Suspense, Veterinarian Aziraphale, Violence, more like "discussions of suicidal thoughts"
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-10
Updated: 2021-01-18
Packaged: 2021-03-04 03:54:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 36,219
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24577132
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/summerofspock/pseuds/summerofspock
Summary: When Aziraphale Eastgate first moves to Tadfield, he struggles to understand the strange culture of the village. They're not friendly or kind or anything he expected from a village in the north. So when he rescues a snake from a snow storm, he's glad for a little company even if it comes in the form of an animal.Unfortunately, in Tadfield, animals are often not what they seem.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 543
Kudos: 1019
Collections: Good AUmens AU Fest





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Ashfae](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ashfae/gifts).



> Welcome to my entry to the Good AUmens event for the prompt Fey AU. This is a retooling of a [ficlet](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21625891/chapters/51811009#workskin) I wrote during the advent challenge.
> 
> Title from a translation of the old english poem Sir Orfeo
> 
> Full credit to [curtaincall,](https://archiveofourown.org/users/curtaincall/pseuds/curtaincall) the first writer who I saw use 'Eastgate' as Aziraphale's surname. It's great and has a very fantasy feel so I'm using it here.
> 
> For my lovely ashfae, you have been so supportive and kind and were so excited about this AU when I first published the ficlets. This definitely exists because of you and I could not be more thankful.
> 
> My eternal love and thanks to [Euny_Sloane](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Euny_Sloane/pseuds/Euny_Sloane) and [Wingittofreedom](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wingittofreedom/works), my wonderful betas who read about four drafts of this until I knew what the heck I was trying to do with this story. A huge thanks to [anti_kate](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Anti_kate/pseuds/Anti_kate) who gave this a final read and made me remember that sometimes it's hard to see the forest for the trees. Finally, thank you to [squiddz](https://archiveofourown.org/users/squiddz/pseuds/squiddz) for being a cheerleader as we mutually bemoaned how difficult it is to write to a deadline.
> 
> Chapter CWs: discussions of putting animals to sleep, discussions of injured and sick animals, depression, passive suicidal thoughts (non graphic)

There are two hundred and six bones in the human body. Two hundred and thirty in a cat. Three hundred and nineteen in a dog. The interesting thing is that so many of these bones are the same. Connected by the same sort of tissue. Surrounded by the same sort of musculature and viscera. Interesting, the things we have in common with the world around us.

Aziraphale Eastgate knew these things because, many years ago, he had learned them at university. He learned them because he had wanted to be a veterinarian. At the time, he’d been in awe. All these wonderful similarities. All these ways to understand how animals and humans weren’t so different after all. Not just in bones and blood vessels but in behavior and feeling. He should have known then that he wouldn’t last. In certain fields, empathy was a weakness, and while that might not always be true of veterinary medicine, it certainly felt like it to Aziraphale.

When had all these animals been reduced to a collection of bones and blood in his mind? When had he stopped enjoying meeting the fifth cat named Whiskers in a week? It was so long ago that he failed to remember. All he knew was what his life had become: wake up and wish you hadn’t. Go about your day and wish it would stop. Wish for anything other than another gray, monotonous day.

On another of those gray, meaningless days, Aziraphale Eastgate slid into his office chair and turned on his computer. Because that was what he did every day.

“I need you to tell the Parsons family that their cat needs to be euthanized,” Gabriel said, appearing in Aziraphale’s office doorway. 

Aziraphale had barely gotten settled for the day. He looked up at Gabriel and frowned. He hated Gabriel, the clinic’s surgeon. The man liked the glory of being a savior, but he had no guts. Not the sort you needed to look someone in the eye and tell them their pet was dying. It wasn’t that Aziraphale had the guts. It was that he had nothing at all. 

“You’re better at it than me,” Gabriel said earnestly, stepping closer. As if closing the distance between them might make Aziraphale feel even remotely more willing to tell some poor family that their cat’s best option was to die.

“You’ve got those kind blue eyes and that...attentiveness thing. You care. They like that,” Gabriel said. Gabriel never resorted to begging, but this was a near thing, and Aziraphale should probably have been enjoying it.

He sighed. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d enjoyed something. 

* * *

Three days later, Aziraphale Eastgate got a call that a great-aunt he had only met once had left him a cottage in the northern village of Tadfield and a somewhat sizable inheritance. Aziraphale took it as a sign. Of what, he didn’t know, but he was decided. Probably long before he’d even gotten the news. 

The smart thing to do, of course, would be to sell the cottage and invest the money. He had a nest egg, but it could always be bigger. That could mean his own clinic. An early retirement. The Aziraphale of twenty years ago would have jumped at the chance. He would have called it a dream come true. But this Aziraphale, an Aziraphale with decades of experience, rebelled at the thought. He hated how easy it was to see the years stretch before him, steadily growing grayer and grayer until he was gray too. Until the only thing getting him out of bed was another pill that did nothing to keep the darkness at bay. He knew where that would end. And it was nowhere good.

He doubted a chance like this — a true escape — would ever present itself again.

It was on a sunny July day that Aziraphale Eastgate quit his job, packed his office at the clinic, and said goodbye to the City. 

He didn’t have a plan. But he tried to believe that he would figure something out. Anything had to be better than the life he had now. It hardly felt like a life at all.

* * *

The village of Tadfield sat in the shadow of the forest of Eden. Most people in the City had never heard of Eden. They went about their day bustling through crowded streets and shops and didn’t spare a thought to the shadows that stretched over their window sills at night. They didn’t worry about inviting strangers into their homes. They locked their doors at night for other reasons than to keep the shadows out.

The people of Tadfield village had their own traditions.

Aziraphale hadn’t known what he expected from the village, but it wasn’t the uneasy silence that greeted him when he got out of the moving van. He’d had this idea in his mind that a small village would be quaint. The sort of place where children laughed and played on the street and neighbors offered a helping hand. But Tadfield’s streets were silent.

He almost didn’t notice at first. He was so focused on the monotonous task of getting everything inside that the odd emptiness barely registered as more than a prickle on the back of his neck. But as he heaved his last box out of the van, the quiet crept up on him, surrounding him. It was the sort of pointed silence that meant someone was waiting. Watching. 

Whoever it was seemed to have very little personal space because Aziraphale could hear their breathing close enough to disturb the hair on the back of his neck. Annoyed at the interruption, Aziraphale’s heart thumped as he set the box down on the tail of the van. As much as he’d hoped some kind neighbor would offer to help, he didn’t feel prepared for social interaction. He was sweaty and tired and there was a clawing irritation in his gut that he tried to ignore. Pasting on a smile, he turned to greet whoever was there.

The street was empty.

His heartbeat grew louder as he turned back to the boxes. He must have been overtired and imagining things. It wouldn’t be the first time his nerves had flared up with no cause. Frowning, he heaved the box into his arms and took it inside. After tipping the driver who had helped him with the furniture, he watched the van pull away. 

As he trudged into the house, he thought about all the boxes sitting in his living room. He knew he should start unpacking. But just the thought made him tired. The drive alone had taken it out of him, and after almost an hour of lugging furniture, his vision felt blurry and his limbs heavy. 

When he finally shut the cottage door behind him, one look at the stack of boxes had him turning his back and disappearing to the bedroom. The bedframe was stacked against the wall, and the mattress was just a lump on the floor but it didn’t matter. There were boxes in the bedroom too, but it was easy enough to drag them into the shadowed corners of the room and pretend they didn’t exist for now. He rifled through a box and pulled out a blanket. That would be fine. He didn’t need to make the bed. He wrapped himself tight in the warm fabric and laid down to sleep.

There was always tomorrow.

* * *

Tadfield was a small place. The sort of place where everyone probably knew each other by name. Except Aziraphale. Every time Aziraphale ventured outside, his neighbors retreated. Was there something wrong with him? He tried not to let it get to him, but watching doors shut as he passed was taking its toll. It wasn’t like he’d spent his time back in the City being particularly social, but this was supposed to be _different._

Tadfield should have been welcoming. It should have been friendly. That was how small towns were supposed to be: friendly and boring. Tadfield was certainly the latter. No night life whatsoever, and only a few shops that all looked the same; a single pub of the kind that was in every small town, and which always managed to be cramped and a bit gloomy. Maybe the lack of activity would allow him space to turn over a new leaf. Try all those hobbies he’d never had time for before. Maybe he could learn to cook. Or take up gardening. Perhaps even write the novel he’d never had the time to get on paper.

Once upon a time, he’d loved stories. He’d loved them so much he’d wanted to share them. He remembered the tales his mother used to tell him when he was young. Stories about brave adventurers and trickster fairies. He used to love the magic of it all. The thought that one day, he’d be old enough to experience the magic himself.

But he’d grown older, wiser, more practical, and learned that magic was just that. A story. There were no fairies, no adventuring heroes. There were only the difficult things you had to do to keep yourself going. Heroes were the sort of people who got out of bed in the morning and managed to smile in the face of everything awful in the world. 

Aziraphale had stopped being that sort of person a long time ago.

He tried to keep his spirits up as he moved his furniture from the piles by the front door to where they belonged. Not that it mattered. There wasn’t much. Life in the city had been utilitarian. He had his desk and his reading chair. A dining room table. Everything needed to perform the tasks expected of a person.

After he moved his desk into the corner by the front window, he turned to the pile of boxes with some measure of hope. Perhaps he could finally begin to unpack. Then his stomach growled, he needed to eat something. Maybe he’d get to it later. _Tomorrow,_ he told himself again. _I’ll get to it tomorrow._

But tomorrow came and the boxes stayed where they were. Instead of unpacking, he somehow wound up cleaning the kitchen, attempting to scrub old grime from the gas stove. It was a pointless and sisyphean task. Dirt lingered in the corners of the cottage in that way of old houses. Never clean, really. Just scrubbed down.

It was slow work, and soon the sun was setting through a still dingy kitchen window. Aziraphale was bone-tired. For all he’d been cleaning most of the day, he could barely tell that anything had changed. Through the window, he could see the yawning forest. It spread along the horizon like a dark smudge, hiding the orange light of the sunset. 

Back in the City, Aziraphale would wake up, go to work, and come home, going to bed without even really knowing where the day had gone. He’d hope things would be different here, but it seemed a change of location wasn’t the miraculous transformation Aziraphale had hoped for. 

He sighed. If he didn’t try to make any changes, that choking smog of the City would never leave him. He couldn’t stay inside forever. It had been weeks and the most he’d done was go down to the convenience store to pick up oranges, and today he hadn’t been outside at all. Perhaps it was time to show his face and really try to be social. That’s what this move had been about.

Pushing through the dread inside him, Aziraphale washed the grime from his hands and then shrugged on his coat. He reasoned that not many people would be about at this hour. He could go down to the pub for a drink without risking any crowds. He didn’t have to speak to anyone. He just wanted to prove to the villagers that he wasn’t some hermit and that they didn’t need to scamper into the shadows whenever he walked past.

When he stepped inside The Thirsty Goat, the clattering bustle of the room dwindled noticeably. Several pairs of eyes turned to regard him with suspicion and the hair on the back of his neck stood up. Which was ridiculous. This wasn’t some sort of cheesy Western film where he’d slapped open the saloon doors, gun strapped to his hip ready for a shoot out. He was a middle-aged, retired veterinarian and there was absolutely no reason for people to look so terrified in his presence.

Making his way toward the bar, Aziraphale took a seat, wondering if he should’ve stayed home after all. Whispers started up in the periphery and Aziraphale ignored them. The barkeep, a young man with a mess of dark brown hair, trotted up and smiled at him. After so long away from other people, Aziraphale was irritated by his careless expression. He remembered when smiles like that had come easy to him. Envy twisted inside him—but the next second he realized how ludicrous he was being. All that time alone was clearly getting to him; other people’s happiness wasn’t a personal attack against him. He tried to remind himself he wasn’t a failure for not being as chipper as he had been in his youth. 

“You’re that fellow that moved into Fell’s Cottage,” the barkeep said, eyes going wide behind his thick glasses. 

Still caught up in his frustration with himself, the young man’s words struck Aziraphale the wrong way. Why was everyone treating him like some sort of freak? He was just a person. A regular person. “Yes,” he bit out. “Though the way you all act, I might as well be cursed.”

To Aziraphale’s surprise, the boy didn’t even falter, just smiled sympathetically. “Sorry about that. We don’t get a lot of new people in town. And with all the stuff that happens around here, most folks are twitchy about strangers.”

Aziraphale frowned. “What? Does Tadfield have a crime problem?” 

The boy cocked his head and set down the cup he was drying. “No.” He glanced to either side and his voice lowered, like this might be a secret between the two of them. “But we have the forest.”

The forest. Unbidden, the image of the looming trees in the distance behind Aziraphale’s garden rose in his mind. It was picturesque. Why would this young man say anything like that about the forest? Perhaps they had issues with wild animals? Was that even a problem people had in the modern world? Aziraphale certainly hoped not. He felt like he was barely making it as it was, and the last thing he needed was to be mauled by a horde of rabid squirrels. Though perhaps death by feral animal would be suitably ironic. He had always liked irony.

“If it’s any consolation, I’m not scared of you. Name’s Newt. Or Newton, if you’d prefer.”

The chair next to him creaked and he turned to see a young woman. She had chestnut hair pulled into a high ponytail and pert glasses settled on her nose. Extending a hand for him to shake, she looked at him expectantly. It was more of a welcome than he’d yet experienced, and after a brief moment of confusion, he took it. Her grip was firm. Decisive.

“You’re the new resident?” she asked. “I’m Anathema.”

Aziraphale glanced at the bartender, but, for some reason, he’d fixed his attention firmly on his hands as he continued to wash glasses.

Aziraphale put on his best smile, the one for young, nervous children coming in with their sick pets. After weeks of disuse, it felt a little strained, and he hoped she didn’t notice. “Hello. I’m Aziraphale Eastgate.”

“I heard you were a doctor,” Anathema ventured. There was something about her eyes. They were deep brown and much too sharp. Like they could cut through him if he said the wrong thing.

“A veterinarian,” Aziraphale corrected out of habit, ignoring the discomfort he felt rising inside him. He just needed to adjust to polite conversation. It had been so long since he’d talked to anyone outside of work. “Retired now, I suppose.”

She gave him an assessing look. “If you want the locals to warm up to you, you should come to the town market on Saturday morning. Buy a few things. Show your face,” she said. “And introduce yourself. People appreciate full names around here.”

What a strange thing to say.

* * *

It seemed ridiculous advice. Aziraphale wanted to ignore it. So what if people ran off at the sound of his approach? They probably should. He wasn’t the friendly, kind person he used to be. It was too exhausting to bother with things like that. 

But a week passed, every lackluster day following the next and every night, Aziraphale thought about the easy warmth of Anathema’s hand as she shook his, about her friendly smile. He knew going out would be good for him. And if he didn’t leave the house, he would just confirm the entire village’s fears. So when Saturday came, he ate a small breakfast to fortify himself and went to the town market.

At first, it was exactly as he feared. After so long indoors, the colors and sounds were too bright and loud, and the whole place was full of suspicious frowns and too many people. He felt as if everyone was glaring at him. They all knew how pathetic he was for being afraid to show his face. He had just made up his mind to return home when he heard his name being called out across the square.

“Dr. Eastgate!”

He recognized the voice as Anathema’s and hesitated. Perhaps he could pretend he hadn’t heard. He could be inside where the sun wasn’t too bright and where there weren’t eyes following his every move.

But it was too late, Anathema was already approaching.

“I’m glad you came!” she said, looping her arm through his like they were old friends. “You have to come meet Dierdre Young. Her family grows the best apples in the north.”

Aziraphale didn’t even have the presence of mind to splutter, just let Anathema lead him around, introducing him as he stared wide-eyed at the sudden human contact.

Strangely enough, Anathema’s words from the night at the pub began to make sense. Every time he shook a hand and said, “Aziraphale Eastgate. Pleased to make your acquaintance,” the strained look around the villagers’ eyes disappeared. They smiled back.

It was...nice.

But when Anathema walked him back to his cottage on the way to her own, the happy feeling Aziraphale had been so relieved to feel started to recede. The brief swell of energy faded and he ended up in his kitchen, biting into an apple and wishing it tasted like anything other than ash.

The sun set, and Aziraphale went to bed.

* * *

Tadfield continued to be oddly quiet for a town so blessed with beautiful nature and good weather. Even on the sunniest days so few people were out and about. Occasionally, Aziraphale would see one of his neighbors in their yard or garden—but running into someone on the streets was nigh on unheard of. Aziraphale tried to see that as a good thing. He didn’t want to make small talk on the streets anyway. 

Despite his reluctance to socialize, he was restless in his house. The boxes were looming, still unopened, and the weather was so nice. Perhaps he needed to air himself out, like opening the windows in a stuffy room. But days passed, and Aziraphale simply didn’t: only ever venturing out for groceries, feeling like a stain on the town’s clean streets.

On his sixth Saturday in Tadfield, he’d had enough. Resolved not to stay inside and feel sorry for himself, he at last mustered the energy to dig a book out from the box labeled _library_ and put a small lunch into a satchel. He could sit outside by the forest and read. He’d never seen anyone walking by the forest so he was certain he wouldn’t be bothered.

Aziraphale picked his way through the field behind his house, following the long path that led to the only cottage close to the forest. He could see the place from his back window, but hadn’t been able to make himself take a closer look until now. He’d think the place abandoned if he hadn’t seen a light flickering in the window in the evenings. When Anathema had walked home after the market, he’d been fairly certain this was where she had gone.

Veering left away from the cottage, he tried to move closer to the shade. The grass was itchy on his ankles and the sun pricked at his eyes, and he began to regret his decision to come outside at all. He almost decided to go back home, but the thought felt like failure. He couldn’t stay inside forever lest he become the crack-pot hermit the villagers seemed to think he was. So itchy and irritated, Aziraphale continued on, determined to at least tryto enjoy himself.

The universe had other ideas.

Just as he was setting up the blanket to really settle in, a screech rent the air. Loud enough that Aziraphale ears rang as he dropped the blanket in a heap alongside his satchel. On an instinct he hadn’t known he possessed, he rushed towards the source of the sound. A blackbird, pinned to the ground beneath thorny brambles. It let out a pitiful chirp, so much softer than the noise that had startled Aziraphale that he couldn’t believe the sound had come from the same animal.

The creeping brambles extended from the forest by several feet, gnarled with thorns as they twisted over the grass. They shook as the blackbird tried to free itself, and for a moment, Aziraphale thought the thorns looked like gnashing teeth, biting at the air.

Shaking off the impression, he focused on the task at hand. He must have been distracted and not thinking clearly. He was often distracted these days. Not much to do. Or think on. It was easy to sink into the fog that had plagued him back in the City. 

Kneeling down by the thatch of thorns, he ignored the prickling at the back of his neck. He felt as if someone were watching him. Like that day he arrived. He told himself he was far enough out from the village that no one could be around. 

He reached out to the bird, making low shushing noises as he stilled its flapping wings with one hand. He cursed as he tried to separate the feathers from the thorns when one snagged on his finger, drawing blood.

"Bugger," he hissed, pressing on in order to withdraw the bird. It was crying now, clearly in pain. It was quite scratched and several feathers were twisted. With a final tug, he freed it at last.

As he cradled the distressed bird to his chest, he thought he saw the brambles tremble. He smoothed out the few twisted feathers and released the bird. It flapped off into the trees with a short cry. Standing for a moment in the bright sun, Aziraphle watched the shadows shake beneath the trees. The whole scene made him feel unaccountably nervous.

He walked the several yards back to his things and picked up his satchel. When he turned back, he was surprised to see the reaching brambles had disappeared. The grass where they had been wasn’t even matted. Had they even been there? He blinked and pushed away his clearly very overactive imagination before walking back to his cottage. He must’ve been cooped up for longer than he’d realized if he was starting to see things.

He’d thought going out and about might afford him some extra energy, but when he returned home, he felt exhausted. Dropping his lunch on the counter, he considered eating it, but the whole situation at the forest had chased his meager appetite away. 

He wished he weren’t so tired all the time. Maybe if he slept enough, he’d wake up able to do all the things he’d pictured doing once he arrived in the country. It was barely past noon, but all he wanted was a nap. As he laid in bed, he tried to recapture that moment of joy from the market, but the emotion was dull, forgotten.

Drifting in and out of sleep, Aziraphale didn’t even dream. His thoughts flitted through his mind, too thin to catch. The shadows in the bedroom stretched as the sun set. Without the firm weight of sleep, a dull grogginess stole over Aziraphale’s consciousness. He told himself he should get up. He failed. 

Finally, his stomach protested the fact that he hadn’t eaten since breakfast and he hauled himself out of his room, not even bothering to turn on the lights in the house despite the cramped dark of night. 

Deciding he would make some toast, he shuffled into the kitchen and dug out his loaf of bread. Just as he popped it in the toaster, a knock sounded at the door and he jumped. Dropping his hands to the counter, he took a deep breath. Who could possibly be stopping by this late? The only person he really knew in town was Anathema, but they were hardly close enough to warrant unannounced evening visits.

He dragged himself to the door when a knock sounded again. He opened it and frowned. There was an old lady standing on his doorstep. Her hair was a wild gray frizz and she had the appearance of glaring at him. He had no idea what had earned him such an expression.

“Hello?” he said, unable to keep the question from his voice. “Can I help you?”

"Dr. Eastgate," she said with a polite bob of her head.

“Have we met?” Aziraphale asked, keeping hold of the door. He wasn’t about to invite the woman in. Incongruous fear spiked in his gut. He ignored it. He was being ridiculous. Perhaps the incident with the brambles had bothered him more than he thought.

“No,” the woman said simply. “But you met my granddaughter. Anathema. You can call me Agnes.”

Aziraphale hesitantly shook her hand. Her skin was dry and thin as paper and a shiver ran down in his spine. His imagination must have truly been overactive that day because the thought that immediately formed in his mind was _witch_. 

"I saw you release that blackbird," Agnes said, voice rasping as she dragged her hand away. “You shouldn’t go that close to the forest.”

Uneasy and unsure, Aziraphale stammered an explanation, "Yes. He'd hurt his wing. I was just—"

"Careful with animals around here,'' Agnes said. She pressed a strong-smelling sachet into his hand. He took it in surprise. 

"For protection."

“What?” Aziraphale asked, staring at the little fabric bag in his palm. Glancing at Agnes, he saw her peering at him curiously. 

With every second, Aziraphale was losing his footing further. What was this woman talking about? He tried to come up with a reasonable reply to the cryptic warning, but found himself speechless.

Agnes gave him a knowing smile, like she could tell he was confused. “The forest hasn’t been happy lately.”

Irritated by all this nonsense, Aziraphale snapped, “And why, pray tell, has it been unhappy?”

“It hasn’t been able to feed.”

The words were like ice water down Aziraphale’s spine and goosebumps rose on his skin. His voice was lost... What could he say?

Agnes cocked her head and her lips thinned. "Can I send my granddaughter to collect some brambles tomorrow?” She pointed at the roses that climbed the outer walls of the cottage. “I have need of the thorns."

Aziraphale nodded, still reeling. _It hasn’t been able to feed._

"Yes, of course,” he stammered, old polite habits winning out as he struggled to understand what this woman was talking about. The same word presented itself on the tip of his tongue: _Witch_. “Take as much as you need."

Agnes smiled wide. "Thank you very much, Dr. Eastgate. Best stay inside. There’s going to be a snow storm."

“Snow storm? I haven’t heard about any storm.”

“That’s because you’re not listening,” she said before turning away and drifting down the street.

Aziraphale closed the door after her, shivering with the draft. He tossed the sachet on his desk and returned to the kitchen. His toast was cold.

He didn’t feel much like eating after all.

* * *

Aziraphale did not appreciate Agnes's cryptic warning. He couldn’t stop thinking about her choice of words. To _feed._

He tried to put it out of his mind the next day. He was going to rearrange his bookshelves so that he had a little bit of privacy in his study, a sort of half wall to divide the open space of the cottage into a study and a sitting room. The boxes were still piled in the main room, and the kitchen, and the bedroom. He paused in his shuffling of the bookshelves that had sat untouched against the wall since he had moved in a month ago. Had he unpacked any boxes?

A wave of disappointment washed through him. Moving across the country and not good enough to even unpack his boxes. Why was he being so pathetic? He was getting rest. He had no reason to be tired. No reason to wake up every morning and struggle to get out of bed as he questioned whether he ever wanted to wake up again. He needed to be stronger. If he was stronger he would…

A clattering noise outside drew his attention and he went to the window. Anathema was outside holding shears and looking at his cottage in consideration. Right. The roses.

Taking a deep breath, Aziraphale slipped on his shoes and stepped outside. “Are you alright?”

Anathema yelped and dropped the shears. She sucked in a breath and pressed a hand to her chest. “Oh, you startled me. Sorry.”

“It’s fine,” Aziraphale said. It was awfully cold outside. Anathema’s cheeks were bright pink from the wind. He had no idea how long she had been outside, but based on the large pile of rose brambles in the basket at her feet, it was long enough.

“Would you like to come inside?” he offered. His worry for his friend — were they friends? — overwhelming the despondent fog that had been choking him. “Warm up a bit. You’re positively shivering.”

Anathema rubbed a hand down her arm and glanced in the direction of the cottage by the forest. Her cottage. Agnes’s cottage.

She glanced at the roses and then back at him. "Thanks, Aziraphale. It was getting pretty cold. I should have brought gloves."

A few snowflakes sifted down from the sky and Aziraphale glanced up at the blanketed night sky. _There’s going to be a storm_.

Aziraphale gestured for her to go inside. “I’ll make us some cocoa and then you can scurry on home.”

Anathema scooped up her basket and pushed inside.

It was only when she stepped inside that Aziraphale had the presence of mind to feel ashamed. Of the boxes, the mess. Anathema knew he’d been here for a month and he’d hardly unpacked at all. Anathema didn’t comment though, just followed him into the kitchen where she sat at his dining room table. 

Aziraphale dug out a saucepan from a box and rifled through the cupboards for the ingredients. They were silent until Aziraphale placed a mug of cocoa in front of her.

"Thanks," she said as she rubbed her hands "I didn't expect the snow to start while I was out here."

"What did Agnes need the thorns for?" Aziraphale asked, strangely curious. He regretted asking almost immediately. He’d probably get some woo-woo response that he’d have to pretend to take seriously.

Anathema gave him a small smile. "She said the snowstorm is a bad omen. It's too early for this sort of weather so she's making a protective circle for the cottage."

"Right," Aziraphale said, trying to sound polite and definitely failing as he remembered Agnes’s expression in his doorway. _It hadn’t been able to feed._

Anathema chuckled. "You probably think she's a crazy old lady, but there's something to be said for the old wisdom. You didn’t grow up in Tadfield. It’s different here. You'd be like Agnes if you’d seen what she’s seen."

Aziraphale's tongue was thick in his mouth. He swallowed. "And what has she seen?"

Anathema opened her mouth, but before she could speak a loud crash came from outside.

As one, they jumped to their feet, moving to the window. Across the lane, a bough had cracked off from the trunk of a large oak tree; it lay collapsed in the road like broken ribcage.

"I should get going," Anathema said, still staring at the branch. She scooped up her basket. "Thanks for the cocoa, Aziraphale."

Aziraphale said goodbye to an empty room while snow swirled in through the closing door, the end of her cloak disappearing into the night.

The wind rattled the window in its frame and Aziraphale cast a final glance outside. The white blanketing the road, the blue cast of night, an oak tree like gnarled fingers reaching toward the sky.

* * *

Aziraphale awoke the next morning to the muffled existence of a world newly layered in snow. He rolled onto his belly and sighed in frustration. He would have to go outside and clear the walk. If he didn’t it would turn into an ice slick and that would be worse.

He heaved himself out of bed and shambled into his winter clothes before going outside to retrieve a shovel from the shed in the garden. Agnes hadn’t lied. It really had been quite a storm. Over a foot of snow had accumulated overnight, and Aziraphale supposed it was good that he was clearing it off now before it froze over entirely.

He scraped the walkway in the garden clear and then made his way out the garden gate to the front of the house, trudging through the heavy snow. It soaked the bottoms of his trousers just above where they were tucked into his boots, a slowly spreading, cold damp that made him wish he was back in bed.

The tree branch still lay felled in the road, but in the daylight it didn’t look quite so ominous. Just a fallen tree with twisted branches. That was all.

Aziraphale shook his head. He'd been letting Agnes’s words get to him. Ill omens and magic and nonsense.

He painstakingly cleared the area in front of his door. It was when he had just scraped up the last of the snow on his walk that he noticed a glimmer of black and red peeking out of the snow surrounding the fallen tree. 

Out of a vague curiosity more than anything else, he found himself approaching, dropping the shovel as he went; the wooden handle sank into the snow with a dull thunk. His breath was a cloud of white as he approached the cracked oak tree.

It became clear upon closer inspection that the reason the black and red was shining was that it was scales. The scales of a snake.

Was it dead?

Decades of experience of caring for sick animals had Aziraphale reaching out to pick it up. The snake was cradled in the palm of his gloved hand before he even registered what he was doing. His heart ached as he looked at the limp body. It was just so pathetic. He couldn’t just leave it outside to die. If there was even a chance it was still alive, Aziraphale was determined to resuscitate it. 

He had no idea if it was venomous or already dead, but he rushed it into his house and placed it in a tupperware container. He stabbed holes in the lid for air and then put it near enough to the fire to begin to warm it. He knew snakes could go into shock if they got too cold, could appear dead as their body tried to protect itself. He had no idea about this particular snake. He hadn’t studied reptiles in depth in university. That was for the exotic pet speciality and Aziraphale had always wanted to go into general care.

So he researched and the best he could come up with was a ring-necked snake, even though that wasn’t quite right; the fellow he’d found was a bit thicker than the pictures. But he was the right length and color, and everything Aziraphale found said his species was completely harmless. That soothed some of his nerves. He didn't want to let the poor thing out to die in the wilderness, but dying of a snake bite less than five miles from the nearest hospital wasn’t the death he imagined for himself.

He supposed all there was to do was to take care of it until there wasn’t quite so much snow and it could sort itself out in the wilderness. So Aziraphale retrieved a hot water bottle and a towel from the half-unpacked _Bathroom_ box that had sat untouched in the corner of his bedroom. He filled the bottle with lukewarm water and placed the snake alongside it in the tupperware. It still wasn't moving but Aziraphale was hopeful it was simply still cold and not dead. He'd feel dreadful if it were.

Worried and distracted, Aziraphale turned to the boxes of books. He had moved the bookshelves. Now he just needed to unpack them. It was a good idea. It was time to unpack. He needed to. Despite his best intentions, he found it increasingly difficult to focus when he kept thinking about the maybe dead snake in the tupperware container on the other side of the bookshelves. He was surrounded by piles of books he had intended to place on the shelves when he gave up and stood. He could settle into the chair by the fire and watch television or read something while keeping an eye on the snake, so if it moved he’d be the first to know.

The clock had just chimed past eleven when a slight movement caught Aziraphale’s eye. He gasped and went to the fireside to peer into the container, watching as the snake moved, coiling into a tight pile. A thin tongue flickered out. 

A heavy weight lifted from Aziraphale’s chest. The snake was alive. Unbelievable. 

Unaccountably feeling as if he might cry, Aziraphale took a shaking breath and pulled the box into his lap. He laughed wetly. It was alive. 

He set the box on his desk and whispered to its new inhabitant, “I’ll give you some food in the morning, my dear,” before taking himself to bed.

* * *

The morning dawned unbearably bright in the way that only snow allowed. Aziraphale stretched in his bed. He’d had the most peculiar dreams. About the little ring-necked fellow on his desk, darting about his empty shelves playfully before transforming into something huge, basilisk-like, fangs exposed and ready to strike.

Aziraphale wasn’t particularly afraid of snakes. He hadn't cared for many during his time in the City, but he had seen enough not to have the irrational phobia towards them that many people seemed to. However, even he felt a chill at the thought of a snake larger than a man. 

He yawned and made his way into the kitchen to put the kettle on. The fields behind his house stretched into the distance, covered in white. The forest rose like a black sentinel on the horizon. He could see smoke curling from the chimney of the cottage in the distance and he frowned, not wanting to think of Agnes and her strange words. 

As the kettle heated, he went to the refrigerator and pulled out a chicken breast, slicing it into tiny cubes. He’d need to get worms and bugs for the poor dear, but this was the next best thing.

Retrieving his temporary house-guest from his desk, he was relieved to see the snake winding around the hot water bottle in the box. It was awfully cute as it flickered its little tongue against the side of the container.

“Hello, my dear. It’s breakfast time,” he said, opening up the lid so he could drop a few slivers of chicken to his new friend. 

The snake immediately slithered out of the container, startling him with its speed. His heart dropped at the thought of it escaping and disappearing into his house only to curl up and die somewhere, but instead it slithered up onto his hand, over his forearm, winding itself around his fingers, tongue flickering. It seemed almost...friendly.

“Aren’t you the cutest thing?” Aziraphale said, somewhat in awe as he lifted the snake closer to him. It let out a little contented hiss that made Aziraphale swell with pride. Which was silly. It didn’t matter if the snake liked him. Did snakes even have feelings?

“I’ve got you a little treat,” Aziraphale said, plucking a small bite of raw chicken from the cutting board and placing it in his palm near the snake’s head. Its tongue darted out and then it struck, gulping down the chicken.

It should have been horrifying. And Aziraphale supposed it would have been if the snake weren’t so absurdly small. About a foot in length and a less than a dime wide, it could fit entirely in his palm when coiled up.

“Oh, do you like that?’ Aziraphale asked, submitting to the urge to stroke the snake's head. It bumped the tip of his finger with its snout. Aziraphale found the action delightful, so he fed the snake another bit of chicken.

“Should I name you, then?” Aziraphale asked idly as the kettle began to whistle. He turned off the burner with his snake-free hand and tipped the snake back into its container where it curled back up on the towel Aziraphale had placed inside. 

The snake let out a very quiet hiss, making Aziraphale laugh at its timing. “I suppose that’s a yes. How about I call you Coils?”

The snake slithered into a pile of coils and Aziraphale thought that was answer enough.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> beta'ed by wingittofreedom and euny_sloane. Love y'all
> 
> CWs for this chapter: scary imagery, gore, body horror, fear response, depression, worms

When Aziraphale awoke the next day, the morning light slicing through the blinds was only slightly less bright and obnoxious than it had been the day before. He rolled over onto his belly, tucking his lone, blue blanket tight around his body and pushed his face into the pillow.

His mattress was still on the floor, the disassembled bed frame leaned against the wall beside him. He hadn’t even dug out the sheets and made the bed. He’d been curling up every night on the single blanket he’d tugged out of a box when he’d moved in. 

He should probably make the bed. But that would mean opening a box. Probably more than one box. He’d probably have to dig through several. He hadn't been as methodical as he should‘ve been while packing and his sheets could be anywhere: in the _bedroom_ box. In a _clothes_ box. In one of the many _kitchen_ boxes if his past self hadn’t been organized. Which he hadn’t been.

He sighed into the pillow. The hot, stale air of his breath blew back into his face. Maybe he would just sleep in for a little longer. He'd unpacked half of a box the previous day, so he had made _some_ progress and he was so tired. He’d pulled out all those books but what had he done with them? Nothing. He’d left them on the floor to be dealt with by some version of himself that could get things done. 

He rolled onto his back and his stomach growled. When was the last eaten? He vaguely remembered breakfast with Coils the day before. 

Coils.

Sitting upright immediately, Aziraphale realized with guilt that he was neglecting the poor thing. It probably needed food and water and its hot water bottle heated. 

With great effort, he pushed himself to standing—he glanced at the wall and the bedframe loomed high above him. He’d set it up later. 

_Soon,_ he thought as he stumbled into the small hallway that led to the rest of the house. How often had he told himself he’d get to something soon? Soon he’d get to the boxes. Soon he’d finish cleaning the house. It had become a tired mantra. Soon. Soon.

_Soon_.

Scrubbing at his eyes, he walked to the front window where he'd left Coils’ box the night before and was pleased to see the snake's tongue flick out when he peered through the side.

"Good morning, my dear," Aziraphale said fondly. He picked up the box and carried it to the kitchen. Glancing out the front window, he saw the snow on the roads was already starting to melt in the returning autumn heat. The storm really had been altogether unseasonable.

Slow but focused, he put the kettle on to heat while he retrieved the container of finely sliced chicken he’d prepped the day before. 

"You're eating better than me, you know," Aziraphale said idly as he allowed Coils to slither up onto his hand. The snake wrapped around his wrist a few times and then settled with its little head resting at the beginning of the deepest line that creased his palm.

He dropped a sliver of chicken to the snake and thought about how best to remedy that. Oranges sounded good. He’d recently picked some up. An orange and some toast. That sounded tolerable. Like breakfast someone reasonable would eat.

Letting Coils stay on his wrist, Aziraphale used his free hand to switch on the kitchen sink and fill the hot water bottle with lukewarm water.

"I wish I had a vivarium for you,'' Aziraphale said. "Or at least a heat lamp. This leftover container isn't exactly built for you."

Coils’ tongue flickered against the ridge of his palm and Aziraphale laughed, surprised. After replacing the hot water bottle, he let Coils droop back down into the container and then washed his hands so he could fix himself some sort of breakfast.

He plucked one of the oranges from the bag on the counter and sat at the table, unpeeling it slowly. The sharp scent of the zest filled the room. He bit down on the first segment of the fruit and closed his eyes, the burst of citrus over his tongue like fireworks. When had he bought these oranges? A week ago? Why had he bought them? He had let the last bag rot. 

He savored each segment until all that was left in front of him was the detritus of the peel, little patches of orange and white on the oak table and the scent of orange zest in the air. He licked a droplet of juice from his finger and glanced toward the corner of the kitchen. There was an open box sat there, with _Kitchen_ scrawled across the side. He’d opened it to pull out a dish here and there, but it wasn’t unpacked.

He swallowed, the lingering sweetness of the orange still lighting his palate. He could manage a box. One box. It would mean his dishes were put away. He might be able to cook again if he knew where all his utensils were. And all his pots and pans. 

Once his cooking spoons were in the container by the stove, and his mugs nestled in the cupboard, he collapsed the cardboard box and leaned it against the wall. Heaviness returned to his limbs as he replaced Coils’ box in the front window with a sigh. He’d hoped that unpacking one box would mean he could unpack a few more, but he didnt feel up to it. An odd sensation lingered at the base of his neck, a tingling like he was sensing the threat of a thunderstorm. 

He frowned. It was probably just the sudden activity making his blood pump for the first time in weeks. He’d been quite sedentary and unpacking a box was more than he had done in a while.

He looked over the half-unpacked box of books in the study, the paperbacks strewn over the old rug. He plucked one from the nearest stack.

Maybe some light reading. That would be better than going back to bed. He was tired of being in bed. It was pathetic. He should be settling in here, making a new life. Not feeling sorry for himself.

Time passed in fits and starts as Aziraphale tried to read. He'd just start to be able to focus on what he was reading when his attention would shift and he'd realize he’d read an entire page without taking any of it in atalll. He gave up after a frustrating hour or two and went into the kitchen for tea. 

Glancing back into the main house, he saw the long shadows cast by the unpacked boxes. It was even more cluttered now that Aziraphale had started unpacking the box of books. Why was he even trying?

He shut off the stove. Reading didn't sound that good after all.

When he went back into his bedroom, he took in the rumpled mess of blankets that was his bed and once more thought about his absent sheets. Perhaps he could look in one of his bedroom boxes. Just one. If he didn’t see them immediately, he’d get to it later. Just looking couldn’t hurt. He glanced over at the dark corner where a box had been sitting since he’d moved in weeks ago. Maybe the sheets would be right on top. He wouldn't have to go digging.

Aziraphale drifted to the corner. The afternoon sunlight filtered through the curtains, spreading wide fingers of light into the dark room. The shadows loomed wide around the shafts of sunlight and Aziraphale reached out to open the box. It wouldn't hurt to look. If he saw the sheets, he could make the bed. If they weren't there then he wouldn’t. 

He swallowed and flipped open the lid.

Sat atop a pile of unknown objects was the spread of Aziraphale linens, shrouding the shapes beneath in white.

He sighed, relief causing his heart to thump painfully in his chest. The sheets were there. He didn't have to dig them out. He could sleep on clean linens. That would be...nice.

He pulled out the flat sheet and was surprised to see he'd packed the fitted sheet beneath it. Like the past Aziraphale had any rhyme or reason in his thoughts to accommodate his future needs.

Aziraphale glanced down at the box, and for a moment the mess of what he had packed intersected into clear shapes: a flexing hand, the shine of a clear white eye, a grinning mouth. Stumbling back, he dropped the sheet, hand going to his chest as he sucked in a breath.

He ripped the cord to his blinds and sunlight flooded the room, throwing even the dim corners into stark relief. It did nothing to stop his thundering heart.

Aziraphale slowly approached the box, swallowing hard. He pushed open the flaps and peered inside.

There was nothing there except hangers and closet organizers.

He sat down hard on the floor. What had he thought he'd seen? A person? Curled up inside the box? He must have been exhausted; whatever thing dragging down his energy was making him see things with his tired and itching eyes.

He closed the lid to the box and returned to bed, hesitating for a moment. He went back to the living room and when he returned he set Coils’ box down in the patch of afternoon sunlight.

It was silly. It was just a snake. Not a protector or anything. But it was somehow comforting to know there was another heartbeat in the house. Another living thing.

He curled onto his side and watched Coils’ shift his body in slow, concentric circles. Aziraphale’s eyes drooped, forgetting everything about putting sheets on and leaving the linens crumpled in a pile beside the box they came from.

He could put them on later. Before he went to sleep for real.

* * *

Aziraphale awoke several hours later to a cottony feeling in his mouth. He should’ve drunk more water before going back to bed. 

He rolled onto his side and saw Coils’ box sitting beside the mattress. The sun had shifted since Aziraphale had laid down and now most of the room was entirely dark. 

Remembering what he had seen earlier, Aziraphale rolled out of bed and flipped on the light, dispelling the lingering shadows and quelling the discomfort in his belly. He should just empty the box and then he wouldn’t have to look at it, wouldn’t have to think about skeletal fingers and milky white eyes.

Approaching it carefully, he grasped one of the flaps and pulled until the box tipped over. Hangers spilled out over the hardwood floor and Aziraphale breathed out. 

“Perhaps I’m losing my mind,” he said to Coils, picking up his box. “I’ve been staying inside too much. Going a bit batty.”

He laughed humorlessly. “Who knows? Maybe I’ll start believing in all these _forest monsters_ Agnes would have me think are real.”

Rolling his eyes, Aziraphale went back into the living room and lit the fire. He looked at Coils in his box and felt a twist in his heart at the thought of sending the poor thing out into the wild. Perhaps he could…

He retrieved his laptop from his desk and sat in his armchair as the thing booted up. He could look into snake care. It wouldn’t be the strangest thing, taking in a snake. At least for the winter. Coils could hardly survive as the weather turned cold even if he was hidden in the forest.

It wasn’t too difficult to find what he was looking for: reviews of vivariums; discussion boards about caring for snakes about the size of Coils; heat lamps, and temperatures ,and diets. It wouldn’t be that much to take on, Aziraphale reasoned. Snakes were fairly low maintenance. He glanced at the bookshelves that separated him from where Coils was staying in his box on the windowsill. 

He would need to drive a few towns over to somewhere that had the sort of stores where he could get the supplies, but it wouldn’t be too hard once it was all set up. Aziraphale fancied the idea. Having a goal that would get him out of the house. Finite and yet with purpose. 

“Would you like that? To stay? We could be friends,” Aziraphale said quietly into the air. Obviously, Coils couldn’t answer. He was being silly, talking to a snake.

* * *

By the end of the week, the snow was entirely melted and Aziraphale was getting ready to drive to the closest pet store when there was a knock at the door.

He shrugged on his jacket and opened the door.

Anathema stood on the other side with a covered plate in her hand and a smile on her face. Her eyebrows went up when she saw what he was wearing. “Oh, are you going out?” she asked.

Aziraphale tugged on his jacket self-consciously. He hadn’t seen people in over a week. Would everyone look at him like Anathema? With a question in their eyes? Suddenly, going out in public seemed like a bad idea. Maybe he could order the things he needed online.

He pushed the thought away. He needed to get Coils’ things quickly. The poor snake had already spent far too long in a tiny, plastic container.

“Erm, yes. I need to pick up some things. I was going to drive into town,” Aziraphale explained. 

“I won’t keep you then,” Anathema said. She held out the plate. “Agnes sent me with scones. She wanted to apologize for making you uncomfortable.”

Aziraphale took the plate hesitantly, not sure if he wanted any more of Agnes’s things in his house. Would the scones have some strange ingredient in them? What if she’d done some sort of _spell_ on them?

That was probably far too judgmental. Anathema was quite nice and Agnes was her grandmother so she couldn’t be _that_ bad. Cryptic warnings notwithstanding. His impression of her had probably been influenced by how spooky the night had been. That was all.

“Tell her thank you. There was no need, but the thought is appreciated,” Aziraphale lied. 

Anathema hesitated and then pulled out something else from her satchel.“She also wanted me to give you this.”

It looked like a stick with berries on the end. Aziraphale’s eyebrows ticked up as he frowned down at it. “What?”

Anathema looked distinctly uncomfortable. “It’s just a tradition. Everyone in the village keeps these above their doorways. You know,” she said, widening her eyes. “To keep the spirits out. When your aunt passed, her house was cleared out. So you don’t have one. Agnes was worried.”

Aziraphale looked at the stick dubiously. “I’m supposed to put a stick...on my door.”

“It’s a rowan twig actually,” Anathema said. She pushed her glasses up her nose. “I know it seems strange but you might want to trust us on this. Traditions exist for a reason.”

It sounded like a baseless superstition to Aziraphale, but he took the stick with a nod. He supposed it couldn’t hurt. 

Anathema looked relieved. “It’ll put Agnes’s mind at ease. Mine too, if I’m being honest.”

Aziraphale gave her a weak smile and said goodbye. Before he left, he dropped the stick on his desk and frowned at it. He thought of the strange thing he’d seen in the box in his room. He shook his head. _Nonsense._ It was nonsense. He was just exhausted and had a bad case of cabin fever. Going on a drive would fix him right up.

He paused by Coils’ box and peered inside, giving Coils an affectionate stroke on the head. Coils bumped back against his finger, making Aziraphale smile. “I’m going to make a new home for you. Nice and warm. Would you like that?”

Coils’ tongue flickered against the pad of his finger and Aziraphale withdrew. It was going to be a good day, and he wasn’t going to let a strange interaction ruin it. He had showered, brushed his teeth. He’d even eaten breakfast. Quite an accomplishment.

Putting his shoulders back, he grabbed his keys and went outside. It was all going to be fine.

And it was. The trip to the pet store proceeded without issue. They even carried the vivarium he’d been interested in. And he was able to put in an order for crickets, though he ended up going home with a small bucket of worms. Much better for Coils than chicken. 

Feeling emboldened, he stopped at the grocery store and picked up ingredients for a real dinner. He would give Coils his worms and then he would cook for himself. What would be so hard about that? 

After hauling everything inside, it was nearing supper time, but Aziraphale ignored the hunger beginning to gnaw in his belly. He wanted to put everything together first. Once Coils was settled, then he would cook.

Setting up Coil’s habitat was fairly simple. After Aziraphale set up the heat lamp on one side and moved the decorative branches around, he retrieved Coils from his box, letting the snake coil up in his hand. 

“It’s your new home, my dear,” Aziraphale said, lowering his hand inside and letting Coils slither out and onto the decorative branch. He wrapped around it quickly, tongue flicking wildly as if excited. Aziraphale smiled at the sight and replaced the lid on the glass vivarium.

“I’m going to make dinner and then we can eat together. Does that sound nice?”

Perhaps it was silly for him to talk to a snake, but it felt nice to have someone to talk to at all.

Once in the kitchen, he stared at his refrigerator in trepidation. Chicken alfredo was easy. He’d even bought jarred sauce and frozen broccoli for the side. Simple. 

He forced himself to open the refrigerator and when he did, he gasped.

Worms covered every surface. Earthworms writhed out of the container he had purchased but far too many for the little box. Larger and oozing. They spilled out of his milk jug and onto the cartoon of eggs, crawling out of the shells like they were reaching, reaching, reaching…

Aziraphale yanked his hand back and the door slammed shut.

Impossible. He couldn’t have seen what he’d seen. It made no sense.

He grimaced and opened the refrigerator carefully. When he looked inside: nothing. It was just his milk and eggs; his jam jars. The white container of worms sat undisturbed on the bottom shelf, well away from his limited provisions.

He let out a long breath and then nearly fell on his arse when someone knocked at the door. He cast an accusatory glance back into the main room and trudged to open it.

The bartender—Newman? New...Newt!—was standing there looking sheepish. “Hi, Dr. Eastgate. Sorry to bother you in the evening.”

He glanced behind him onto the steadily darkening street before turning a nervous smile back on Aziraphale. 

“It’s fine. Can I help you with anything?” Aziraphale asked. Cold air slithered inside his door and wrapped around his ankles, the chill palpable even through his trousers. He thought of worms and slippery things and firmly stopped himself from shifting where he stood. It was only his imagination. 

“It’s just...some folks in town were concerned that you hadn’t put up a rowan branch on the lintel. Old Mrs. Fell had the ward up, like the rest of us, but it must have been taken down by the cleaners.”

Newt then handed him a stick that looked almost identical to the one that Anathema had given him earlier. 

“What could a stick above my door possibly have to do with anything?” Aziraphale snapped, snatching the stick from Newt’s hands. He resisted the urge to throw it into the street like the garbage it was. 

Newt’s eyes went wide and he held up his hands in surrender. “No offense meant, Dr. Eastgate. We all have them. It’s tradition. What with the forest and everything.”

“What on earth does a stick have to do with the blasted forest?” Aziraphale demanded, gripping the stick so hard he felt it snap slightly under his fingers. “And why are you all bent on being so—so _odd?”_

Newt looked a little taken aback.“Did your aunt not tell you any stories?” he asked. He had such innocent eyes that Aziraphale had trouble staying angry. Newt didn’t mean anything by his questions. He was probably just trying to be nice. And he didn’t know that Aziraphale had been seeing strange things in his house that made him want to sleep with all the lights on. He didn’t know that Aziraphale might slowly be going crazy.

Aziraphale closed his eyes and let out a long breath. He would be courteous. Perhaps he could salvage the situation. “I didn’t know my aunt very well.”

“Ah.” Newt pushed his thick rimmed glasses up his nose. “Well, everyone in Tadfield has some sort of nasty story about the forest. Some folks don’t really _believe_ in the stories, but I think we’ve all decided rather be safe than sorry, and if that means keeping a...a _stick_ above the door, then that’s what we do.”

Aziraphale frowned and thought about the vines he’d seen, the brambles that seemed to be gnawing at the blackbird’s wings. Did Newt mean stories like that?

“I’m sorry, I’m being awfully rude,” Aziraphale said. In a half-hearted attempt to make up for his belligerence he added “Would you like to come in? For tea or cocoa? It’s a bit chilly out there.”

Newt shook his head. “That’s alright. I was about to meet Ana at the pub.”

Aziraphale recognized the emotion rising in him as relief. He didn’t want the lad coming in. He didn’t even know why he was inviting him in. 

_Because you’re scared and your only company is a snake_.

“That’s probably for the best. I was just getting my snake’s new habitat together and should probably get him his dinner,” Aziraphale said.

“Snake?” Newt said with a frown. 

“Oh, yes, I found the poor fellow in the road during the snowstorm,” Aziraphale explained. “I haven’t had the heart to send him back into the cold. I’m afraid he wouldn’t survive.”

Aziraphale could see the bob of Newt’s Adam’s apple as his eyes went wide. 

“You might, um—Dr. Eastgate, it’s probably not a good idea to take in wild animals around here.”

“Coils is hardly some sort of threat,” Aziraphale said with a scoff. “Now, if you’re not coming in, I should really get started on dinner.”

Newt eyed him warily. “Alright. Be careful. Don’t forget to put up the ward.”

Aziraphale nodded as he shut the door. He tossed the stick on his desk beside the one Anathema gave him. Every day this village made less and less sense

Once back in the kitchen, he gathered all his ingredients and utensils, reasoning that it would help him actually complete the dish if he didn’t have to keep seeking out tools. Chicken alfredo, chicken alfredo, he kept repeating to himself as he put water on to boil. 

He set a pan with a bit of oil on the hob and turned back to the cutting board. The chicken breast lay there, pink and shining. Aziraphale picked up the knife and took a deep breath. Something flickered in the corner of his eye and then flared to life.

He yelped as the knife in his hand caught fire in a blaze of light. He threw it in the sink and took several steps back but as it disappeared into the basin, so too did the light of the fire. When he approached the sink, the knife sat there placidly, not even steaming against the damp metal of the sink. Had he imagined that as well?

Looking between the chicken on the cutting board and the knife, he decided noodles and jarred sauce would do. 

* * *

The next day Aziraphale woke up and rolled out of bed. He felt reasonably rested for once. It was probably for the best, after all the strange things he’d been seeing. Surely some good rest would resolve the issue and ensure he would see no more strange things in the shadows or flaming knives.

Riding the wave of energy, Aziraphale threw out Agnes’s scones and ate an orange for breakfast before deciding he was going to take out all the trash from putting together the vivarium. There were several boxes and some styrofoam he didn’t need. 

Taking a rubbish bag, he went into the living room, said good morning to Coils and started to pick up the bits of garbage left from the day before. He even cleaned up his desk, throwing out some useless papers and mail. He discovered the sachet Agnes had given him before the snow storm. He rolled his eyes and threw it in the bin as well, before hauling the entire lot outside.

When he stepped back into the cottage, he froze. There was a strange feeling in the air like the pressure had changed. Aziraphale's ears popped and he shook his head. Why did he feel faint?

His nose registered the smell of burning: charcoal, and brimstone. Had he left a burner on somehow? But he knew he hadn’t. The smell clogged the air and clawed down his throat, making him choke. For a moment, he was certain he was having a stroke. There was no other explanation.

Then movement caught his eye and he turned towards it instinctively. Coils’ vivarium. And inside...what Aziraphale saw inside made his stomach crawl up his ribcage to grasp at the base of his tongue.

A mass of sliding black scales, growing and growing, spilling like a cloud of ink inside the vivarium. The thick mass pressed against the side and Aziraphale knew it was going to break before the crack rent the air. Shards of glass scattered across the floor. The thick, wet sound of a body hitting the floor, the scales inverting, the slick movement of blood and bone and guts roiling and— 

A man stood in Aziraphale's cottage, clad all in black. His hair was as red as Coils' tail and when he smiled his canines were too long.

No, not canines. _Fangs_.

Aziraphale’s hand collided with the wall and he retched onto the floor, dry heaving so hard his back hurt.

Then the man was in front of him, so close that Aziraphale could smell him, the cracked smell of a freshly struck match, the damp smell of moss. His eyes were a putrid yellow, slitted.

Scales flashed at his temples, only to disappear as his head weaved back and forth, a snake readying to strike.

_A snake_.

"What—who—"

Aziraphale didn't have words. He tried to find them.

"Aren't you interesting?" the man said, hissing through his sibilants. "Taking in a little sssnake."

Aziraphale's heart was so loud he could hear it. He took a step back, closer to the front door. The man followed, movements sinuous and unnerving. 

"Coils?" Aziraphale squeaked.

The man cocked his head and sucked his lower lip between his teeth. His _fangs_. "Something like that."

Aziraphale stared at him. At his pet snake come to life.

"Best be off," the man said, rocking on his heels. He raised one hand. "Oh, and thanks for the chicken. Not a big fan of worms though."

Coils bared his teeth; his smile far too wide for a human mouth. He snapped his fingers.

And disappeared.

Aziraphale collapsed against the door, gasping for breath. His pulse rocketed in his throat and his stomach churned.

What the _fuck_?

* * *

An hour later, Aziraphale sat at the pub drinking scotch and staring into the distance.

Newt kept giving him strange glances and asking if he was okay. Aziraphale had no idea how to answer. He was decidedly not okay. But how would he explain?

He could still see the writhing mass of flesh on the carpet, feel the sensation of pressure in his ears, taste the tang of blood and smoke in the air. 

He had no idea how long he had been drinking when a hand landed on his forearm, making him jump. 

Concerned brown eyes settled on him. Anathema.

"Aziraphale, Newt called me. Are you alright?"

Aziraphale swallowed around the shard of glass that seemed stuck in his throat. He tossed back the rest of his whiskey. His hands were shaking. "I dont know."

Anathema carefully touched his elbow."Can you tell me what happened?"

Aziraphale opened his mouth. Closed it. Shook his head. "Something unbelievable. I think I'm going mad."

Anathema smiled sadly. "You'd be surprised the sort of madness that happens in this town."

Aziraphale took a deep breath and thought of Agnes. If anyone wouldn't try to cart him off to an asylum for what he thought he'd seen, it would be Anathema.

"Perhaps I could show you."

Anathema walked with him back to his cottage. The sun had set and the stars were out, the moon reflecting off the stone of the cottages and cobblestones of Tadfield. It should have been picturesque, but Aziraphale couldn’t help but peer into the shadows. It felt like something was there. Something with scales and slitted eyes. 

He stopped in front of his door. He squared his shoulders and pushed it open.

The whole place was dark.

Aziraphale took a deep breath. Despite his two whiskeys, he felt intolerably sober as he turned on the light. It flickered into being, illuminating the interior of his cottage. It looked the way it always did, half unpacked yet unexpectedly cozy. Except.

Aziraphale turned to look at the place Coils’ vivarium had been, and saw the sharps of glass carpeting the floor. His mind conjured images of writhing black flesh, of exposed bone and he had to press a hand to his mouth to stay the bile rising in his throat.

Anathema crossed to the destroyed vivarium. Her hands were out in front of her like she was reaching in the dark. She paused, feet in the midst of the shattered glass, and turned back to Aziraphale. “What happened here?”

Aziraphale put a shaking hand to his forehead. He closed his eyes. “Two weeks ago, during the snowstorm, I found a snake in the street. I rescued him and have been taking care of him since. Today…”

Anathema winced. 

“Something happened. I don’t know. Coils—my snake, he changed. That’s the only way I can describe it. It was like watching a body turn inside out and then there was a man standing right where you are. Just a man. And then he disappeared.”

“Your snake turned into a man,” Anathema said slowly, glass crunching under her boots as she returned to his side.

“I know it’s mad,” Aziraphale said, tears gathering at the corners of his eyes. This was nothing like what he wanted when he moved here. Afraid of his own study, crying in front of his neighbors. He was being ridiculous.

“One of things you learn in Tadfield is that the animals are often...not what they seem,” Anathema said quietly.

“Let me talk to Agnes about this. I think I know what happened but she’ll know better. She knew something was going on with the forest,” Anathema said. She drew one hand to her mouth and chewed on a cuticle thoughtfully. “Do you have anything made of iron?”

Aziraphale frowned at the sudden change in subject. “Iron?”

“Perhaps a pan? Or some sort of poker?” Anathema said, going into the kitchen without even asking. Aziraphale heard the cupboards opening and he followed after her in a daze.

As he stepped into the kitchen, Anathema pressed a cast iron pot into his hands. “You should keep this on hand. I’ll talk to Agnes. Until we figure this out, I’d suggest you make sure all your windows are locked at night.”

Anathema was already breezing past him and Aziraphale couldn’t stand her sudden dismissive tone. He stomped his foot and snapped, “Miss Device, explain yourself this instant.”

She paused at the door and turned back. Her sharp eyes searched his face. The lines about her mouth struck Aziraphale as strange. With sudden clarity, he realized she was afraid. His heart thumped painfully in his chest as she stepped closer to him and said, voice low, “The people in Tadfield don’t keep pets. They don’t go near the forest. I didn’t grow up here, but I’ve learned from Agnes. We do what we have to in order to keep the monsters out.”

“Monsters…” Aziraphale breathed, thinking about the writhing mass of blood and bone and scale that had become a man with fangs. He pictured his mother sitting at the foot of his bed, reading him stories about animals that turned into people when they were needed most. People who did heroic deeds and saved the day. 

This was nothing like that. This was as Anathema had said. Monsters. Aziraphale’s stomach clenched once more, his muscles tight with anxiety.

Anathema closed her eyes and pressed the pan closer to Aziraphale’s chest. “Iron burns them. Keep this with you. Silly as it feels, it’s the best you can do. I’ll talk to Agnes. Stop by the cottage tomorrow and we’ll come up with a plan. Maybe we just need to cleanse the house.”

Anathema’s eyes cast over the small study, lingering too long on the shadowed corners. Aziraphale glanced at the shattered vivarium and shivered. 

Anathema gripped his elbow. “I’ll talk to you soon. Lock your windows.”

She smiled grimly and disappeared onto the street.

Aziraphale locked the door after her and tried to calm the racing of his heart.

Monsters.

He thought about little Coils, the way the snake had wrapped around his fingers, eaten from his hand. He couldn’t believe a snake like that could in any way be related to monsters. To the sorts of stories parents told their children to teach them lessons. 

Uneasily, Aziraphale went into his kitchen for a glass of water and tried not to think of red-haired men with fangs. With scales at their temples.

* * *

All night Aziraphale avoided the study. A difficult feat as it was barely hidden by the bookshelves separating it from the sitting room. Every time he got a glimpse of the vivarium, shattered and broken, his heart raced and his hands itched like the glass was somehow stuck in the meat of his palms.

When had he become so soft?

There had been a time when broken bones and lacerations were a part of his daily life.

But it had been so long ago. As he'd settled into daily care, he was no longer an emergency vet. He prescribed blood panels and diets. He didn't reset bones. Gabriel had been their surgeon. Aziraphale had done simple check-ups and delivered bad news. 

He tried to watch television, but nothing held his interest. He found his hands shaking every time he tried to start reading. It was hopeless.

Finally, despite the nerves that wouldn't disappear, exhaustion began to claim him. The clock on the mantle chimed midnight and Aziraphale conceded that sleep might be the thing that finally settled him. It was the only thing that did these days.

He heeded Anathema's warning and checked all the windows before changing into his pajamas and crawling into bed.

He thought he might not be able to sleep, the same images flashing behind his eyes. Horror and disbelief mixing into a slurry in his gut that burned like toxic waste.

But shock won out. The adrenaline and tension from the day had taken their toll and Aziraphale dropped off with little ceremony just as the moon peeked its face in the window.

Aziraphale had always been a deep sleeper. His partners had commented on it on a few occasions. Namely when he muttered in his sleep and they tried to get him to stop talking.

So it surprised him when he awoke in the middle of the night to a strange weight on his chest.

He opened his eyes and the first thing he saw was the smile glinting in the moonlight.

Then a pale face leaning over him, a flop of red hair. A man sitting on his chest.

"Hullo, Aziraphale."

Aziraphale punched the man in the face.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [chants] MONSTER! CROWLEY!
> 
> if you'd like, you can find me on tumblr [here](https://summerofspock.tumblr.com/)


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> beta'ed by euny_sloane who was very, very patient and wonderful despite me running through eighty crises a week about this fic
> 
> so the CWs on this chapter are sort of weird and I don't know how to explain it exactly. If you have concerns about the broad nature of them, feel free to message me on [tumblr](https://summerofspock.tumblr.com/) and I'll try to explain more in depth.
> 
> CWs: discussions of suicide, past suicidal ideation including brief mentions of considered methods, humorous discussions of suicide, minor injury (blood), monster Crowley
> 
> two amazing pieces of art from last chapter from aazeal [here](https://aa-zel.tumblr.com/post/622211133975265280/aa-zel-so-it-surprised-him-when-he-awoke-in-the) and lydiajoypalmer [found here](https://lydiajoypalmer.tumblr.com/post/622557134825111552/summerofspock-says-monstercrowley-rights-i). One hilarious and one unfairly sexy.

The thunk of a body hitting the wooden floor roused Aziraphale entirely. Heart racing, the muzziness of sleep disappeared as he sat up and looked at the man who had just been seated on his chest and was now sprawled in front of him, rubbing at his cheek.

"Oi, what was that for?"

The shadows of the room were too deep for Aziraphale to make him out completely, the sharp angles of his face obscured in darkness. All Aziraphale could see was his long, red hair, the slight hook of his nose as his pale skin caught in the moonlight.

"What the hell are you doing in my house?" Aziraphale demanded, snatching the cast iron pan from the floor beside the mattress. He used every ounce of courage he had to force his hand not to shake.

The man scuttled back on the hardwood floor and held his hands out in surrender. "Hear me out!"

Aziraphale paused but did not set down the pan. 

The man took that as an opportunity to barrel on. "Yesterday, I was a snake."

"I remember!" Aziraphale said sharply. Hysterically.

"I'm not actually a snake. Well, sometimes I am a snake. Mostly I'm shaped like this. Man-shaped. Used to be a man. But now I'm a snake-man. Sort of. Man that can be a snake.” The man frowned. “Sorry. Getting ahead of myself."

Aziraphale lowered the pan and gaped at the man currently running his mouth on the wood floor of his bedroom. This was not what he had expected. What _had_ he expected? To be eaten alive probably. Or maybe killed in other unique and monstrous ways.

"What are you doing in my house?" Aziraphale asked shrilly. This was getting ridiculous. As the man scooted further away, moonlight finally illuminated his face, giving Aziraphale a better look at him than his adrenaline-addled mind had afforded earlier that day. He looked about Aziraphale’s age with sharp features, and patches on his face that seemed to shift back and forth between skin and scales. He was dressed...queerly. He looked as if he’d fallen out of a period film; an impoverished street urchin from a century ago, clothes dipped in ink before he was dropped onto Aziraphale’s floor.

The man pushed his long, red hair from his face and grimaced. Aziraphale still didn't like how sharp his teeth were.

"It's a bit embarrassing."

"Either tell me or leave," Azirapale said, once more raising the pan.

"I'm not going to leave," the man said as if mortally offended. "I can't actually. That’s why I'm here."

Aziraphale glared at him, for all the world feeling like he was having an argument with an obstinate pet owner at the clinic instead of with a creature who could most certainly kill him. 

He must still be in shock because those encounters were ridiculous and this was...this should be terrifying but the man in front of him just kept talking like they were having a casual conversation over tea.

"I tried to go back to the forest, but they wouldn't let me in. Said I owed a mortal a life debt. They said I stank of humanity!” The man scoffed. “Can you believe it?"

Aziraphale tried to pick out the important bits from the man's little explanation but could only repeat, "Life debt?"

"Yeah, you saved me from the snow. Thanks for that by the way. So now I have to save you, else I'm bound to you for all of time, protector of your life, yadda-yadda. You know how it goes.”

Azraphale certainly did _not_ know, but before he could ask, the man went on, “I can’t hurt you on purpose until the bond is broken, so I can’t...yanno, toss you into a busy road and save you from there so I was thinking you could try to kill yourself and I’d stop you and we could be done with it."

"Wha—what?" 

Kill himself? The idle musings of his years of choking gloom, the considerations of poisons locked in office cabinets, of ropes and knives, they all flashed in his mind in quick succession. Had he really been considering it all this time? Had the urge always been there? He cleared the cloying thickness from his throat and scrubbed at his eyes. He didn’t want to— 

"Yeah. Even brought a knife you could use. Nice and fancy." The man pulled a knife out of his ratty black jacket and held it out. The metal of the blade shone in the moonlight and reflected back over his eyes revealing their yellow color, their slitted pupils.

"You really are Coils, aren't you?" Aziraphale asked, more to himself than to the man. He was still reeling from his realization that he’d been passively considering suicide for years. He had been plodding through life. It was nothing but drudgery and monotony, but he didn’t want to _end_ it, and he certainly wasn’t going to attempt it for some animal that could become human. For some _monster._

"Crowley actually," the man said with a wince. "Not Coils. Bit cutesy, that."

"Well, you _were_ very cute," Aziraphale pointed out. 

Crowley’s eyes flashed in the light and Aziraphale was being slammed back against the pillows before he could blink. His cast iron pan fell from his hand as fingers wrapped around his throat and sharp tipped nails scraped his skin. Scales ripples over Crowley’s face in waves as he hissed, "I’m not cute. Fey aren't cute.” 

The fingers flexed around his throat, but before the pressure could even grow uncomfortable, Crowley yelped and fell back on the mattress.

“Bugger-fuck,” he swore, shaking out his hand as if it had been burned. 

“You really can’t hurt me,” Aziraphale breathed. It was unbelievable. Every single bit of what had happened over the past week was unbelievable and now _this_. A monstrous man in his bedroom. In his _bed_.

“That’s what I said, innit?” Crowley snapped, running his palm up and down his thigh like he was trying to wipe it clean. His long legs were kicked out on the mattress and poking Aziraphale in the hip. Crowley might not be able to hurt him, but apparently that didn’t stop him from being rude. "Now are you going to kill yourself or not?"

"I think no, actually," Aziraphale said, beginning to feel a flicker of irritation as Crowley kicked at his hip again. “I don’t have to do anything you say.”

Crowley growled, rising to his feet. Not enjoying being towered over, Aziraphale lurched to standing and was disconcerted to find that Crowley was taller than him. No matter. Aziraphale was larger. If it came to that.

 _He can’t hurt you_ , Aziraphale reminded himself in an effort to slow the beating of his heart.

“I need you to take the knife,” Crowley hissed, shoulders going up around his ears as he gestured with the blade in question.

“Stop brandishing it about,” Aziraphale retorted, knocking Crowley’s arm away. He hissed again, this time angry and defensive.

"If you don't take the knife or...or do _something_ ,” Crowley said, baring those inhuman fangs, “I’m stuck here."

"I don't see why that's my problem," Aziraphale snapped.

Crowley let out a frustrated yell. "I’ll make it your problem."

The smell of brimstone cracked through the air, familiar and nauseating. Crowley’s body collapsed, skin inverting into black scales in flashes of viscera and bone. 

It was a bit easier to watch this time. 

Barely.

Then the little snake was in front of him, slithering away and up out the cracked window.

“Get back here,” Aziraphale said, stomping after him. “This isn’t—this isn’t possible.”

He stared out the window into the field and saw no movement. He wouldn’t, would he? Coils— Crowley was so small, he would barely disturb the grass. Irritation and disbelief built inside him, a fiery pressure in his gut. This was unfair. He moved here to get away from stress, to start a new life. And now this. Now he had a damned forest and a _monster_ to contend with. 

“I’ll make it your problem,” he said to himself, mocking Crowley’s tone. “Go ahead and try.”

He turned on his heel, ready to go make himself a nice, angry cup of tea when his foot collided with the pan he had left on the ground. Pain rocketed up his leg and he yelled. No. He didn’t yell. He screamed. 

Chest heaving, he swore. “Fuck.”

Scooping the pan up from the ground, he threw it on the bare mattress, angry at the pan, angry at the mattress, angry at himself for leaving the damned thing without a sheet. He was pathetic and this whole situation was absolute nonsense.

He couldn’t do anything to stop it but he could get some answers. 

Hobbling to the door, he stuffed his feet into his galoshes and marched out the door. 

“Agnes will talk to you in the morning,” he grumbled, mocking Anathema’s words. Pain still lanced up his foot and his frustration only grew. “It hasn’t been able to feed. Oh, Agnes sent you a ward. Agnes. Agnes. Agnes.”

He’d worked himself up into a right state by the time he was pounding on the cottage door. He had no idea what time it was but there was still a light in the window and he found he didn’t much care either way.

Anathema answered the door.

“Aziraphale?” she asked, looking him up and down.

He must have looked terrible, striped pajamas tucked into galoshes. He couldn’t say what his expression was, but he imagined it wasn’t exactly a soothing counterpoint to his haggard appearance.

“I want to talk to Agnes,” he said, bypassing pleasantries in favor of answers. 

Anathema’s eyes went wide and before she could respond a gruff voice said from inside the cottage, “Let him in, Ana.”

Agnes’s cottage was larger than his. Older too. The kitchen was just off the entrance, it’s large butcher block covered in the stripped stems of roses.

 _I have need of the thorns_.

Agnes was stood by the sofa, one eyebrow raised as Aziraphale put his shoulders back, ready to lay into her. To demand answers. He took a deep breath and Agnes said, “Why don’t I make you some tea? It’s late. Is herbal alright?”

Aziraphale’s breath left him in a whoosh and he was left staring at the old woman while she drifted into the kitchen. Her wrinkled hands moved deftly over the stove as she put the kettle on. 

“You seem to have had a fright,” she said as the hob began to tick, gas lighting up beneath the kettle.

“There was a man in my house,” Aziraphale said, trying to recapture some of his anger, but in the face of Agnes’s eerie serenity, he found he couldn’t. “He said he was...from the forest.”

“What?” Anathema demanded harshly. Aziraphale turned to look at her and saw her tawny skin was flushed, normally sharp eyes turned bright with fear or maybe anger. Aziraphale rushed to assure her. 

“He didn’t hurt me!” Aziraphale insisted. “Obviously. But I need to know what’s going on. More than just _be careful_ or _there’s a storm_. I’m tired of all these cryptic warnings and you will explain this to me!”

His voice had steadily gotten louder during his tirade and just as he sucked in a breath to continue, Agnes pressed a warm cup of tea into his hands. It smelled of lemon and chamomile.

“Drink this. It will help you calm down.”

Aziraphale wanted to throw the cup on the ground but good manners won out as Agnes led him to a seat at the kitchen table.

"Most people who live in Tadfield have lived here all their lives," Agnes said as she dropped a sugar cube into her tea. It disturbed the surface in small, hypnotic ripples that drew Aziraphale's attention. The spoon scraped against the side of the china, loud enough that it seemed to be the only sound in the room.

“Your aunt was an exception,” Agnes began. She tapped her spoon against the edge of the cup, breaking Aziraphale’s focus on the whirlpool of tea. “And Anathema here. She grew up in the City, much like you.”

“I’m not exactly sure what your point is,” Aziraphale replied, grip tight on the handle of his tea cup. 

“My point,” Agnes said patiently, “is that you don’t understand the way the village works. You don’t understand the forest.”

“Then explain it to me!” Aziraphale slapped his palm down onto the table, making the china shake.

Agnes sighed and took a sip of her tea. “The issue is, Dr. Eastgate, that most of the people in the village don’t understand the forest. But it isn’t about understanding. It’s about knowing.”

“Alright then, what should I know?”

“What sort of man appeared in your house tonight?”

Discomfort flashed through Aziraphale. He had the strangest inclination that he shouldn’t tell Agnes. That she didn’t need to know. He pushed through his trepidation and said, “He was dressed...strangely. And he had the eyes of a snake. Patches of scales all over his face.”

Agnes grimaced. “That sounds like a fey.”

“Fey,” Aziraphale repeated flatly. His hands were sweating an inordinate amount. Wiping them on his trousers, he shifted in his seat. 

“And what did he do?”

How was Aziraphale supposed to explain? “He just...he spoke to me. He didn’t hurt me. He said he couldn’t.”

“Of course he said that,” Anathema said from beside him, her voice dark. Aziraphale hadn’t heard her sound anything like that before. She’d been so polite before. Kind.

She sounded like Agnes.

Agnes fixed her granddaughter with a sharp look before returning her gaze back to Aziraphale. “You need to decide what you want to do. If he’s fey, he can be quite helpful, but you have to play your cards right.”

China cracked and Anathema swore, bringing her hand to her mouth with a hiss.

“Ana,” Agnes chided, hurrying to the cupboard to retrieve towels. Aziraphale took them without thinking and sopped up the spilled tea as Agnes retrieved the broken shards of the tea cup.

Blood trickled down Anathema’s finger and she hurried to the sink to rinse the cut. 

“He can’t work with a fey,” Anathema said over the sound of the running tap. “It’s a recipe for disaster. You know that.”

Agnes sighed. “Why don’t you go patch yourself up? I’ll speak with Dr. Eastgate.”

Anathema shut off the tap with a harsh slap of her hand and marched into the bathroom. 

“Dr. Eastgate,” Agnes said, slipping into the chair next to him. She took his hand and Aziraphale stared at where their skin met, dazed. “If you believe this creature means you no harm, the best advice I can give you is to place the ward I sent above your door. If the snake has already been inside in both his forms, it may not work. But it’s the best place to start. I’ll do some research on other potential avenues of protection. Be careful. Whatever this creature wants, I wouldn't get too close to it."

“What am I supposed to do? Just—just _go home_ and hope it all works out? You said this is a monster—”

“Fey aren’t all that different from us,” Agnes said, interrupting. She squeezed her fingers around Aziraphale’s wrist and only then did he realize it had been shaking. “Longer lived, yes. But they all want something and if you know what that is, you can protect yourself.”

The issue was that Aziraphale _did_ know what it was— _kill yourself—_ but for some reason he couldn’t say it. The words stuck in his throat like honey, crystallizing into shards as he swallowed. 

“Just take care,” Agnes said in that raspy voice that had once sent a chill down Aziraphale’s spine. Now, the aged nature of it felt soothing. “I’ll see what I can do about the wards. Keep that iron pan handy. It’ll do you good.”

Aziraphale glanced back out the window but there were only rolling fields, the village in the distance, all bathed in the glow of the sunrise. How late had it been when he’d come here? How long had he been talking to Agnes? "Ye-yes. I’ll go home and put up the ward. If that’s all I can do. "

Agnes smiled sympathetically and showed him to the door.

It was only when he was halfway home that he realized he’d never said a thing about his cast iron pan. Looking back over his shoulder at Agnes’s cottage, Aziraphale chose to ignore the shiver that ran through him at the thought. 

The lights were already on when he pushed back inside his cottage and he certainly should have expected it, but he still jumped when he saw Crowley at his kitchen table, hands folded in front of him, ready to negotiate. His expression was flat, red hair falling over one shoulder as he stared Aziraphale down. His fingers flexed where they were clasped together.

He spoke. "What are you doing consorting with a witch?" 

_He can’t hurt you_ , Aziraphale reminded himself, even as his legs threatened to shake. He took a deep breath, ignored him and walked to the taps to pour himself a glass of water. This was just like any animal he’d ever cared for. He couldn't show fear. He needed to make it clear that Crowley couldn’t shake him with his posturing. With cats, it was slow blinking, with dogs, it was eye contact, with snakes...he had no idea.

He supposed he would have to wing it.

Looking out over the garden, he sighed. His whole worldview had changed in less than forty-eight hours. His eyes body ached and there was a steady pulse of pain at the base of his neck. 

He supposed it didn’t matter how much he wanted to wrestle with this new reality. He couldn’t exactly convince himself it was all in his imagination. Sitting at his table was a man he'd seen turn into a snake and back again. That was proof enough.

A long time ago, before he had begun to lose his positive outlook, Aziraphale had been very good at making the best of difficult situations. He tried to recall what he had done back then.

It felt strange, like he was asking not his past self but a different person for advice. He took a deep breath. When in doubt, he used to think that kindness was usually a decent start. And he didn’t have any better ideas.

“I’m not exactly consorting with a witch. I’m friends with them. Sort of,” Aziraphale added as an afterthought. He’d begun to think of Anathema as a friend, but Agnes was an entirely different matter, though she had been kind enough. Enigmatic, but well-meaning.

Crowley bared his teeth as his eyes darted over Aziraphale’s face. “You’re trying to kill me, aren’t you?”

All of Aziraphale’s felicity left him. “Excuse me? _You’re_ trying to kill _me._ ”

Crowley surged to his feet, shoulders up about his ears as he spoke, a low hiss underscoring all his words as the scales at his temples rippled. “I said I want you to kill _yourself_. That’sss different.”

“It’s not different! I don’t know how things go in _fairyland_ or what have you, but in the real world asking someone to commit suicide is considered rude!” Aziraphale said, throwing his hands up in frustration.

“It’s not suicide if I’m going to save you!” Crowley retorted. “It’s—think of it as playacting.”

Aziraphale crossed his arms over his chest and took a deep breath to calm the raging of his heart. “No. I’m not going to do it. You’re going to leave my house. And I’m not going to entertain this...this _farce_.” 

When Crowley’s lips peeled back in displeasure, his canines were so long they caught on his lower lip. Where his eyes had before only had slitted pupils, now the entire sclera was infected with that sickly yellow. With three languid steps, Crowley crossed the kitchen. His body swayed like a snake, angling to strike.

“Haven’t you been listening? I _can’t_ leave,” Crowley said in that same low, hissing tone, the sibilants coiling in on each other and making Aziraphale dizzy. “I can’t go back to the fucking forest until I save your life. What do I have to do to get that through your thick skull?”

“You’ll have to find a way to survive outside the forest then. I’m not going to manufacture some sort of _accident_ just so you can pretend to save me. Who knows if that will even work? What if you can’t save me and I’m actually injured?” Aziraphale stood his ground as Crowley took another step forward. He would not be moved. “No. I don’t like it. You’ll have to make do in the world like the rest of us.”

Crowley struck, darting so close that Aziraphale could feel him. He wasn’t cold exactly, but with bare inches between them, Aziraphale imagined every source of the heat in the room was being drawn into Crowley’s skin like it hungered for warmth. 

“I can’t make do. I haven’t been outside the forest in decades. Not since—” Crowley broke off with a snarl. “What am I supposed to do? Buy a cottage? Play nice with the little humans? No.”

Crowley’s hand came to lay flat on his chest and all that registered was pressure, the distinct absence of heat. He smiled, wide and sharp, snake eyes narrowing to slits. “You’re going to almost die. And I’m going to save you.”

Aziraphale tried not to shrink as Crowley leered over him. He couldn’t show fear. He’d learned that over and over in his younger days when he’d first started working with sick and feral animals. Perhaps it was exhaustion making him so bold, but he was fed up.. All he wanted was sleep. He would even put up the ward on the lintel if it meant that he could close the curtains, and rest. Maybe when he woke up, he’d feel better. Aziraphale said, voice as steady as he could make it, “I will not. And you can’t make me. You said yourself you can’t hurt me. So I get to make the rules here. And I’ll help you adjust to life here, but I’m not doing any sort of ridiculous thing like trying to get myself killed.”

Crowley pressed even closer, the drifting smell of smoke and peat filling Aziraphale’s nostrils and making his heart race. As he spoke, his breath tickled the fine hairs on Aziraphale’s neck.

“I may not be able to hurt you. But I can make you regret this.”

Aziraphale clenched his jaw and squared his shoulders. He had gone through years of unhappiness, terrible coworkers, angry customers. He was a strong person and he wasn’t going to let some rude person (snake?) ruin his attempts at happiness.

Crowley could stuff it.

“I’d like to see you try,” Aziraphale said, tilting his chin back so he could look into Crowley’s eyes.

Crowley grinned, mischievous and sharp. “Oh, I’m going to enjoy this,” he said quietly just before he disappeared.

Aziraphale took a deep breath.

He had a ward to put up and then he was going to take a nap.

* * *

Aziraphale got ready the next morning with less fanfare than normal. A quick shower and a donning of clothes. He pulled on his favorite, most comfortable jumper, purposefully insulating himself against the sort of day that was surely about to come. After adjusting his cardigan a final time in the mirror, he went into the kitchen.

It was empty. No Crowley.

Aziraphale hesitated before entering, carefully filling the kettle and watching out of the corner of his eye, expecting Crowley to emerge from the shadows as soon as he turned his back. He put the kettle on the stove and nothing happened. He retrieved a tea bag and nothing happened. He opened his cupboard and— 

He had no cups.

Frowning, he peered inside. He opened the other cupboard. No cups.

His heart fell. He had hoped the wards would work, but Agnes had warned him. He supposed some missing china was hardly a terrible price to pay. And he had bowls. What was a bowl but a large cup without a handle?

"I'm going to presume that's you," Aziraphale said to the empty air, feeling silly, but certain something was there when he caught a whiff of woodsmoke similar to the strange scent that had nearly choked him that day when Coils transformed.

"You’re being ridiculous,” Aziraphale added testily. “A few missing teacups are hardly a trial.”

He took a sip from his tea bowl and considered the downsides to playing chicken with a magical being. 

He looked around the room. He hadn’t finished cleaning the kitchen since his pathetic attempt weeks ago. It was probably better to do something if Crowley was going to lurk and watch him. He certainly couldn’t sleep the day away. That would give the bastard too much time to get up to his nonsense.

He started with the dishes. He’d let quite a few pile up, what with all his attempts at actual cooking. Rolling up his sleeves, he set to work. The ritual of turning on the taps, of letting the sink fill, the scrub of concentric circles, lulled him into a rhythm. It was nice to have something mundane to do. Something familiar. What he really wanted was to go back to sleep, but with Crowley certainly lurking, he knew he’d never be able to rest.

He finished drying his last plate and a tapping sounded at the back door. He looked over and saw Crowley tapping the nail of his index finger against the glass. When Aziraphale met his eyes, he grinned. 

"Did you enjoy your bowl of tea?" he said through the door, index finger now pressed into the window pane. It was going to leave a smudge.

Aziraphale ignored him and went into the study. He couldn't avoid cleaning the mess of the vivarium much longer. Even though looking at it made his stomach turn. He grabbed the broom and dustpan from the hall closet and went into the front room. The back door squeaked open behind him.

"You can’t ignore me forever."

He heard the sound of booted feet trotting behind him. 

"What are you doing?" Crowley asked as Aziraphale began to sweep.

Aziraphale ignored him.

Crowley drew closer, circling him like some carrion bird waiting for its opportunity to gorge itself. "I asked if you liked your bowl of tea."

"It was fine," Aziraphale conceded, finally squatting to sweep the pile of glass into the dustpan. He went back into the kitchen and tossed the pile of shards into the bin.

"It was pretty good, wasn't it? Fun little trick," Crowley said, clicking the ‘k’ between his teeth. He obviously thought himself very cool.

"You took my cups," Aziraphale said as he brushed past him to go back to the study. He rolled up the small rug by the desk and took it outside to shake out the smaller shards he wasn't able to sweep. "That's not the end of the world."

He stepped out into the garden and shook the small rug. Bits of glass flew into the grass.

Crowley appeared beside him, chin practically hooked over his shoulder. "You’re not being very fun to irritate."

"I'm cleaning," Aziraphale insisted, stepping outside to turn to face him.

Crowley grinned and shut the door in his face.

He heard the click of the lock.

Fuck.

* * *

Aziraphale pounded on the door. "Let me in, you wretch."

He heard the sound of a record screaming. It sounded as if a person had just dropped the needle willy nilly as the sound of violins poured, muffled, through the glass window before cutting out on a screech.

Crowley peeked his head around the kitchen doorway and gave him an insouciant wave. More a twiddling of fingers than an actual greeting. The bastard. "Now what are you doing out there? It's really very cold," Crowley said, sticking out his lower lip in a ridiculous pout as he slinked across the linoleum. "Do you need someone to...save you?"

"This hardly counts and you know it," Aziraphale said. He kicked the door petulantly.

Crowley tutted at him. "Cranky fellow, arent you? Are you hungry? I think I’m hungry actually. What sort've nibbles have you got?"

As Aziraphale watched from the back door window, Crowley crossed the room and poked at the refrigerator. "What’s this? Some sort of fancy ice box?"

"It’s a refrigerator,” Aziraphale said loudly, projecting his voice through the glass. “If you let me in, I’ll show you how it works."

Crowley flashed him a look as if to say _can't trick me_ and pulled open the door. He leaned down and peered inside. Sticking his hand into the refrigerator, he cooed, “Oh, that’s _neat_."

He reached in and pulled out a jar of jam. It was the nice gooseberry kind Aziraphale had bought at the Saturday market. He watched with horror as Crowley pried it open and stuck his whole finger inside, scooping it out and plopping it on his tongue. 

He looked at Aziraphale through the window and smacked his lips. "Yum."

Aziraphale would not stand for this.

He marched to the nearest window and yanked on the screen. It didn't budge. The second, however, the one in his bedroom, was more than willing to oblige.

Aziraphale was soft. He had been soft for years. He liked food and wasn't fond of exercise, much preferring sedentary activities such as reading to something much more violent like pull ups. Which is all to say, Aziraphale Eastgate struggled mightily to heave himself over his windowsill.

But he had jam to protect. Three kinds. Three kinds, all probably full of fey fingers.

When he finally slumped onto his bedroom floor, he was red-faced and sweating. It didn’t matter. He had a fey to evict.

Aziraphale barreled through his house only to find Crowley waist deep in the fridge, most of its contents scattered around him on the floor, various jars opened, lids strewn about. There was a smashed egg on the tile beside Crowley’s knee and the cardboard top to the orange juice was ripped open, juice spilled all down the sides and puddling beneath it.

"What on earth—" 

Crowley turned toward him, dropping the elbow propping open the door. It swung shut and slammed into his face which was truly satisfying to see. 

He spluttered and pushed it back. "How’d you get in here?"

"This is my house! Put all of that back!"

Aziraphale despondently counted all three opened jams which had clearly been poked and prodded. Besides that his olives and pickles had all been opened. He hadn’t noticed the destroyed milk carton slowly leaking onto the floor. He flexed his fingers into fists.

Crowley squinted at him. "If I put it all away, can I eat the rest of these olives?" 

He jammed one long finger in the direction of the already mostly empty jar.

Aziraphale sighed. "Fine. Then leave."

"Don’t feel like it," Crowley said, snatching the jar and trotting past him. He tossed an olive into his mouth and smacked his lips loudly as he chewed. "Your gramophone is broken. I'm going to try to fix it."

Aziraphale was torn between addressing the milk and orange juice slowly curdling together on the floor and the risk of an irreparably mangled record player. He sighed. The milk would have to wait.

It turned out Crowley wasn’t making mischief. He genuinely thought the machine was broken. "But where's the horn thingy?" he asked, waving his hand in an approximate horn shape and slopping olive brine onto the floor.

Frowning, Aziraphale clicked off the machine to stop the needle from whirring over the turntable. "Record players don't have those anymore. Sounds comes out of the speakers” He pointed at the speakers on either side of the AM/PM dial. “It's all electronic."

"Electronic," Crowley echoed thoughtfully, still eating the olives like popcorn.

Aziraphale took a moment to really look at him. He did look like something that had stepped right out of the movie screen. Old timey clothes. Handsome in that old movie way. If you didn’t know about the scales, snake eyes and fangs anyway.

"When was the last time you were in the human world?"

"Ehhhh," Crowley said, rolling an olive in his mouth. "Hundred odd years ago. Why?"

Aziraphale thought of Coils, so curious, happy to have the freedom to slither about the books, tongue flickering over anything and everything. Was Crowley like that? Did he just want to experience the world? "I think there are much more exciting things for you to try than jarred olives."

Crowley sucked on his teeth and tongued one of his fangs. "I did like that jam. Gooseberry?"

“Quite right.”

Crowley hummed and dropped into Aziraphale’s reading chair, curling his legs up under him in a way that should have been wildly uncomfortable. He tossed another olive into his mouth.

Aziraphale huffed and against his will felt a little surge of fondness for the man despite his rude behavior. He just seemed so much like Coils. 

"Well, if you're going to be around Tadfield for a while—"

"I better not be," Crowley said dubiously.

Aziraphale chose to ignore him. "If you’re going to be in Tadfield for a while, you might want to change your clothes. You look a bit like a vagrant. It might be better for you to fit in unless you’re angling to be chased out with pitchforks."

"Don't want to _fit in_ ," Crowley sneered. He slammed his jar of olives onto the side table and surged to his feet. "I want you to almost die so I can save you so I can get out of here!"

Aziraphale took an involuntary step backwards as Crowley approached, that same hiss from before echoing in the room.

"I'm not a human and I'm not going to play at being one,” Crowley snapped and then disappeared.

Warmth flooded into the place where Crowley had stood and Aziraphale took an involuntary step backwards. He pressed a hand to his chest to slow the hammering of his heart. Without Crowley there, the silence in the cottage was deafening.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry if you read this and were subjected to a stupid note to self i missed deleting in editing *facepalm*


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello!!! I am still writing this! I swear! I've just been focusing my energies on my other WIP before turning my attention here.  
> Thanks to euny_sloane for the beta, and the handholding. I have like 5x as many crises about this fic as I do the rest of the ones I write so it's extra hard work I think.
> 
> Some hefty CWs for this chapter: discussions of potential murder, implied past murder of a child, referenced drowning

Aziraphale couldn’t sleep.

He wasn’t exactly surprised by this. Someone had broken into his house twice. Not just someone—a monster. This restlessness was a far cry from the somnolence that had plagued him for months, and he should have been grateful for it. Instead, he sat in his bed as moonlight filled the room, cursing Tadfield, cursing the forest, and cursing Crowley.

He’d thought he’d been making progress with Crowley. They’d had a real conversation after the jam debacle that afternoon. He’d hoped that maybe Crowley would drop the whole ‘kill yourself’ business, but it seemed unlikely. From what Crowley said, it didn’t sound like he went out in the human world very often. Perhaps being outside the forest was disconcerting and uncomfortable and that’s why he was so desperate to go back.

Aziraphale felt a twinge of pity. He knew what it was like to feel uncomfortable in the world.

No matter. Hopefully soon, Agnes would find a way for him to seal the house and keep Crowley out and it would no longer be his problem.

He sighed and stood, flicking on the overhead light. If he wasn’t going to sleep, he could at least do something useful. Perhaps he could finally put his bed frame together. He didn’t necessarily need to heave his mattress onto it, but he could screw the damn thing together instead of leaving it to lean against the corner of the room. He could do it. He _would_ do it.

As he pulled the pieces of the bed frame onto the floor, he realized with no little amount of embarrassment that it wasn’t even difficult. He didn’t have to fish out the rarely used toolbox that was buried somewhere in the house—the pieces fit together with nuts and bolts. He simply had to affix and tighten them with his hands and a little wrench that fit into a groove on the underside of one of the pieces. Once it was done, it sat there on his floor, complete. Something he’d finished for once. Something concrete.

He pressed a hand to his mouth to suppress a disbelieving laugh.

“Look at that,” he said to himself.

“Look at that indeed.”

Aziraphale whirled around. Crowley leaned against the wall behind him, arms crossed like he didn’t have a care in the world. 

“What are you doing here?” Aziraphale demanded. He crossed his own arms over his chest, feeling a bit exposed in just his thin undershirt.

“Bothering you,” Crowley said, a slight heat of irritation in his voice. Scales flickered to life at his temples and disappeared. Perhaps they only did that when he was emotional.

“Aren’t there more productive things you could be doing?” Aziraphale retorted.

“Don’t have much else to do. Since _someone_ won’t let me go home,” Crowley said with a sneer

“You know, maybe I’d be more willing to help you if you were slightly more polite. It’s considered rude to pop into people’s houses unannounced and threaten them in the middle of the night.”

“I’m not threatening you!” Crowley protested. 

“I think the threat is implied,” Aziraphale pointed out, frustration rising by the minute. Crowley couldn’t even let him have one moment of enjoyment over his accomplishment. No. He had to appear and ruin the only bit of satisfaction Aziraphale had felt in months. 

“C’mon,” Crowley whined, tipping back his chin and pouting. “Just help me. You help me and I’ll leave you alone.”

“Help you with your...murder thing?” Aziraphale asked coolly.

“It’s not _murder_ ,” Crowley said irritably. “I’m not actually going to _murder_ you. The point is that I have to _save_ you. It’s really the opposite of a murder if you think about it.” 

Aziraphale sighed. He was tired. He wanted peace and quiet. He wanted this whole thing to be over. He came to Tadfield to rest. Why couldn’t Crowley leave him alone? He cast about for something silly Crowley might agree to. Perhaps Aziraphale could get one night of peace.

“If you help me first, I’ll _consider_ helping you.”

Crowley perked up. “What sort of help?”

Aziraphale hadn’t really thought he’d get that far and said the first thing that came to mind. “If you, er, help me with my mattress and swear to...to not bother me at night any longer, I will consider it.”

Crowley narrowed his eyes.

Aziraphale sniffed and held his ground.

“Not good enough,” Crowley said with an impudent jerk of his chin.

“Fine! I’ll...I’ll make a list. Of potential things you could save me from. And we can discuss it,” Aziraphale counter-offered, knowing full well he’d probably have Agnes’s solution by then.

Crowley cocked his head and his scales flickered, rippling down his high cheekbones. He smiled. 

“Alright then. Deal." He reached out, long fingers tipped in sharp nails. Aziraphale was certain he hadn’t always had nails like that and that Crowley was playing the fiend just for fun. Refusing to be cowed, Aziraphale grasped his hand and shook it. It very much felt like making a deal with the devil.

Even if Aziraphale was lying.

“Heave-ho then,” Crowley said, dropping into a crouch on the opposite side of the mattress.

Together, they hefted the mattress onto the frame. It looked a bit pathetic with its rumpled blue blanket and bunched up pillow.

“You got linens or something?” Crowley asked, wrinkling his nose at the unmade bed.

“Oh! Yes,” Aziraphale said, remembering that he’d tossed them into the corner of the room when he’d seen that awful thing in the box. He looked at Crowley. “Wait, were all those hallucinations _your_ doing?”

The fey smirked. “Course it was me. I was a bit bored. Trapped and all.”

“Well, that was rude. And unnecessarily spooky,” Aziraphale huffed, gathering the linens.

When he looked at Crowley again it was only to see his smile grow into something cheshire, unnaturally broad. “Oh, big spooky fan, me.”

“Clearly,” Aziraphale said, rolling his eyes. “Now. Are you helping with the linens or no?”

To his surprise, Crowley _did_ help with the linens. When they stood back, surveying their work, Crowley elbowed him, a bit harder than Aziraphale really thought was necessary, but apparently not hard enough to trigger any sort of response from whatever magic kept Crowley from truly hurting him.

The silence stretched and turned. Aziraphale cleared his throat, unsure of what to say. Crowley spoke for.

“Well, when can I expect this list?” he asked. Some of the joviality left his face. Without the playfulness, Crowley looked harsh, demonic. Evil.

Gooseflesh rose along Aziraphale’s arms and he swallowed around the lump forming in his throat. In their moment of cooperation, Aziraphale had forgotten who Crowley was. What he was. “Three days?”

Crowley scratched his Adam’s apple thoughtfully and hummed. “Make it two.”

Aziraphale took a deep breath. It wavered in his throat. “Fine. Two.”

Crowley grinned and disappeared.

Collapsing on the bed, Aziraphale took several heaving breaths. The smell of woodsmoke lingered in the air as he closed his eyes and tried to slow the hammering of his heart. How had he forgotten Crowley was a threat not some sort of friend? That the only thing keeping the fey from ripping out his throat, from dragging him into the forest, was some bit of old magic.

A life debt. How had he ended up somewhere he had to take that phrase seriously?

He fell back against the pillows, light still on, and closed his eyes. He’d get up in a minute. He just needed to get his bearings.

* * *

When Aziraphale woke up, his limbs ached and his eyes were crusted shut. He wondered if fey had some power to suck every drop of energy from you. But when he rolled over, he realized this was just another day in his life. Another awful day.

He let out an abortive moan and curled in on himself. His stomach grumbled audibly and he forced himself out of bed. Drink water and brush his teeth and eat something. Take care of basic needs and then go back to bed so he didn’t have to worry about it. 

The overhead light still shone in the bedroom, but it made little difference with the sunshine now streaming into the room. Aziraphale glanced out the window over the slowly withering fields. Winter would arrive soon and with it, the sun would disappear and the perpetual grayness would return. How much more awful would his days be without the promise of sunshine? Without warmth?

Shutting off the light with more force than necessary, Aziraphale shuffled out of the bedroom and into the kitchen where he found no sign of Crowley. At least the fey kept his end of the bargain. Not that Aziraphale intended to.

The teacups were still gone, but he had clean glasses. He filled one with water and drained it quickly, feeling some energy return as he swallowed the cool water. He just needed to rest. 

Not bothering with the toaster, he nibbled on a slice of bread and mourned his gooseberry jam. He ought to throw it out. Or maybe just give it to Crowley since he’d already stuck his fingers in it.

Wandering into the living room with the intention of grabbing a book—he was hopeful he could at least read in bed, and maybe something on top of one of the stacks would be worth rereading—he froze in the doorway. The piles of books he had left scattered in the study had disappeared.

Had Crowley stolen them?

That was a bridge too far. Teacups were one thing. But his books? Aziraphale loved his books. He thought he'd managed to reach some sort of detente with the interfering fey and now this.

Bread crumpling in his hand, Aziraphale marched into the study and paused when he saw that his books hadn’t disappeared. Instead, they were neatly put away on his bookshelf. A piece of paper was laid atop the books on the middle shelf. Aziraphale set down his mangled bread and cup of water onto his desk and picked up the note. In what was truly horrid chicken scratch, it said:

_Pretty shure books go on shelfs. Unless things changed wile I was in the forest._

_2 days. Don’t forgit._

Aziraphale read it twice. Besides the bad handwriting, the spelling was atrocious. He looked at the poorly organized books and tried to quell the swell of rage in his chest. He had planned to put away his books in his own time according to his own system. Crowley had clearly tried to organize by color which _looked_ nice but was essentially useless. His poetry was with his non-fiction for goodness sake! He’d never be able to find anything! Looking at the mess in front of him made his eyes burn with anger. First the teacups, then the jam, now _this._

Aziraphale closed his eyes and breathed. Being this angry was pointless. It's not like he would dare confront Crowley over this. 

He supposed Crowley was trying to help. Or he probably was. Who knew? Maybe this was another irritation tactic. Aziraphale was certainly irritated by it. But what if Crowley was just trying to be appreciative since Aziraphale had finally agreed to help? Guilt sparked in Aziraphale’s belly at the thought. He hadn’t even intended to help. He’d _lied_.

Frustrated at the whole situation and deciding to deal with it later, he swiped a book at random from the red section and trudged off to bed, leaving his bread and water behind alongside the smoldering remnants of his frustration.

And even though he intended to rest, when he laid down in his bed, he couldn’t stop thinking about that list he’d promised Crowley. What if the fey had been trying to help? That was…surprisingly nice. Aziraphale frowned at the growing shadows on his ceiling. Was there anything nice about this sharp-toothed fey?

Perhaps it was old habit, Aziraphale’s soft heart, but he couldn’t shake his memories of Coils. The way the tiny snake would curl around his hand, flicker it’s tongue in curiosity. He pictured Coils writing that notes and couldn’t imagine any ill will. Aziraphale had often cared too much in his previous life, and here he was, even after trying to leave that all behind, caring again.

* * *

Agnes appeared at sundown, a sonorous knock announcing her presence and rousing Aziraphale from his half-hearted attempt at reading. She carried a bulging canvas satchel and when Aziraphale let her in she set it on his desk and began to rifle through it without so much as a hello.

“Where’s Anathema?” he asked, peering outside to see if she was somehow hidden in the gloomy twilight.

Agnes extracted a plastic container filled with grotesque gray liquid and turned her piercing eyes on him. “She’s having some trouble adjusting to the idea that you’re involved with a fey—”

“Involved,” Aziraphale scoffed.

“So I thought it best she stayed home,” Agnes finished, ignoring him. She passed the container of liquid to him and he held it up to the light. It had much the same color and consistency as swamp water.

“Has he been back?” Agnes asked carefully as Aziraphale returned his attention to her.

“Yes,” Aziraphale admitted, nerves returning, coiling tight in his belly. He didn’t like talking about this with Agnes. He wanted her help but he was afraid. What had Crowley accused him of? Trying to kill him by consorting with a witch? He didn’t want to kill Crowley. He didn’t want to kill _anyone_. He just didn’t want to deal with him anymore. “He was here yesterday. Twice.”

“And did he give you any trouble?” Agnes’s expression was unreadable, sharp.

A laugh burst from Aziraphale before he could stuff it down. Agnes raised her eyebrows and Aziraphale’s guffaw turned into a more sedate chuckle. “You could say that. I think he’s trying to irritate me into helping him.”

To his surprise, Agnes laughed as well. “I’d say that’s quite typical. Fey are often all bark, no bite.” She took back the plastic container. “Or in your case, all hiss and no fang.”

Aziraphale thought that suited Crowley rather well.

When Agnes removed the lid to the container, it became clear that Aziraphale’s estimation of the substance inside was not far off. The scent of algae and still water wafted through the room and he wrinkled his nose. “What is that?”

“A bit of water from old Dagon’s pond,” Agnes said. “I will admit, it’s not a permanent solution, but it will keep your fey from popping in and out at will. Obviously, it won’t stop him from coming in via traditional means..”

“And by traditional means you mean…”

“Breaking and entering, yes,” Agnes said. She was already dipping her paintbrush into the pond water and brushing it over the window sill by Aziraphale’s desk.

For some reason, he didn’t think Crowley would have any qualms about breaking into his house. He’d already slithered in and out in snake form, but Aziraphale supposed preventing him from popping up in his bedroom in the middle of the night would be an improvement. As it was, he should probably get to work on that ways to be murdered (or not murdered?) list. Or at least put together some sort of peace offering.

Maybe a few jars of gooseberry jam?

There seemed to be all sorts of rules surrounding this fey nonsense. Maybe there was some sort of gift that could signify _yes, thank you so much for your time, but I would love to be left alone._

“Agnes,” Aziraphale ventured and the old woman paused in her focused painting of the window sill. “Say I were trying to, erm, go about this the opposite way.”

Agnes frowned. “I don’t follow.”

“What if I tried to...ingratiate myself to him? Befriend him? Would that work?”

Agnes cocked her head, smile returning. “Ingratiate yourself to him? Singing a different tune, are we?”

“What?” Aziraphale stammered, not liking the knowing glint in Agnes’s eye.

“Many fey are quite beautiful. What about yours? Is he handsome?” 

“I—” Aziraphale pictured Crowley’s sharp teeth. His putrid eyes. But beneath that he supposed he had nice cheekbones, a well-defined jaw. Handsome. It was a handsome face. Aziraphale shook his head and waved his hands. “No!”

She laughed and raised her eyebrows. “You wouldn’t be the first person in history to be seduced by a fey.”

“Seduced?” Aziraphale repeated, voice going up so high in pitch he thought he must sound like a dog whistle. “That’s not at all what I—I just want to know if it would be reasonable to _befriend him_.” 

Agnes smirked and gave him a final sly look. “There are rules surrounding relationships with fey. They like their tricks and their riddles. Entering into any sort of reciprocal relationship could put you into a position you’d regret. I can’t say I would recommend it.”

“That’s good to know,” Aziraphale said as his hands began to sweat. A position he’d regret. How was that different than where he was now? There was no good way out of this pickle he’d gotten himself into. He’d just been trying to be kind. To save a wild animal from a harsh winter night.

Agnes hesitated, the weathered lines of her faces thrown into sharp relief in the growing dark. She grasped his wrist and squeezed. It was an awkward show of support but Aziraphale appreciated it all the same. “I’ll look into it, Dr. Eastgate.”

Aziraphale smiled wanly. “Please, call me Aziraphale.”

* * *

Aziraphale was up late that night, the exhaustion in his body irrelevant in the face of the whirling thoughts in his head. Crowley could no longer appear and disappear in his house at will, which would be a marked improvement. However, he was fairly certain Crowley would be willing to smash through his windows to get inside if he wanted to. Aziraphale did not want smashed windows. He’d had enough shattered glass to last him a lifetime.

Maybe he should leave a note on the door that said _please knock_ and then he could at least have warning that Crowley was there. Though there was no guarantee Crowley would obey such a note. 

When he gave up on trying to sleep and went into the living room, the clock on the mantel read just after midnight. Rifling through his desk drawer, he pulled out a steno pad and a pencil. He hesitated only briefly before taking a seat in his reading chair by the fireplace. He stared at the paper. He wrote:

_Ways to help Crowley_

The clock ticked steadily on the mantel as he chewed on the end of the pencil. By the time he drifted off, head lolling against the back of the chair, he’d written one thing: _drowning._ And that was only because he could still catch the occasional whiff of pond water on the air.

Waking up the next morning with a stiff neck and a very dry mouth, Aziraphale winced as he rose from the chair. His hips creaked and popped. He was too old to fall asleep in chairs. Picking up the notepad from where it had fallen on the carpet, he sighed. Not a very good list. He wasn’t entirely sure Crowley wouldn’t appreciate the sorry effort.

He also wasn’t entirely sure why he cared.

Stretching his arms over his head, he went into the study and was distracted by the sound of laughter outside his window. Strange. He lived on the edge of town and there were very rarely passersby.

It was Anathema and Newt walking into town. Anathema caught his eye and gave him a small wave before approaching and knocking on his door.

“Aren’t you going to the festival?” she asked, politely ignoring the fact that Aziraphale was in his pajamas. 

Aziraphale leaned his weight against the door and peered outside as the muffled sounds of music drifted down the cobbled street. “Festival?”

“For the end of autumn,” Newt said. He shifted from foot to foot with barely contained excitement. “We have one every year. It’s pretty low key. I think folks would like to see you there.”

The back of Aziraphale’s neck prickled, the heavy sensation of being watched returning. “Erm, I’m not sure. I don’t—”

“Just for a bit,” Anathema said, wide, guileless eyes making Aziraphale feel quite guilty for trying to turn down the invitation. “We’ll wait for you to change and we can go together.”

Aziraphale struggled to find an excuse besides his ever-present malaise, so he invited the pair of them in while he went and washed his face before changing into a pair of trousers and a jumper to keep out the growing cold. His stomach was heavy with dread as he left his bedroom, telling himself that fresh air was good for him. It might stimulate ideas for Crowley’s list. 

It might keep him from going mad.

“I’m glad to see you put the ward up on the lintel,” Newt said as they left, gesturing back at Aziraphale’s door.

He shot Anathema a look, but she steadily avoided his gaze, mouth thin as she crossed her arms over her chest. Agnes said she was upset about the situation with Crowley. Perhaps he shouldn’t discuss it.

“Yes,” Aziraphale said, turning his attention to Newt in order to be as polite as possible. “Both you and Anathema stressed the importance of it, so I thought it best to take your advice.”

Newt grinned, a lopsided, endearing thing that gave Aziraphale a bit of insight into what Anathema saw in the plain young man. They reached the village square and much to Aziraphale’s relief, it wasn’t some bustling, tumultuous fete. It was only about as busy as the Saturday market. There were stands set up around the central fountain, some adults were milling about, chatting, and a few children were on the far side of the square running about and laughing at whatever children found to laugh at.

Anathema leaned close to him and said, “Most of the village attends, but some of the older folks say it’s too rowdy. Agnes doesn’t like it at all.”

Aziraphale looked around and felt rowdy wasn’t an entirely apt descriptor. Deirdre was selling her infamous apples, dipped in shiny caramel or red cinnamon candy. He saw RP Tyler overseeing a group of young men close to the fountain, the man’s finely groomed moustache an easy identifier even though Aziraphale had only met him once.

Anathema tugged on Newt’s arm. “C’mon, I want some of Mary’s cider before it runs out. Stay here, Aziraphale. We’ll get you some.”

Newt stumbled after her, adjusting his glasses and leaving Aziraphale to watch the villagers around him. 

The music was coming from a set of speakers set up close to the fountain. Low strings, maybe a fiddle, stretched quietly over the bustle in the square, rising and falling and making Aziraphale’s skin prickle with nerves. It felt like the overture in a full theater, stage curtains still pulled tightly shut, red velvet about to rise.

“Here you go, Aziraphale!” Anathema said. 

Aziraphale started, taking a quick step back as he sucked in a breath. Anathema pressed a warm styrofoam cup into his hand and winked. “Mary’s cider. The first batch is always extra boozy.”

“Oh,” Aziraphale said with a shaky smile. “Thank—thank you.”

A chill wind passed through the buildings around the square with a quiet whistle, disturbing the steam above his cider and carrying the scent of cinnamon to his nose. He glanced at Tyler where he was still directing the group of villagers by the fountain and took a fortifying sip of cider. It was, in fact, quite boozy, and the alcohol plucked sharply at the back of Aziraphale tongue.

The men by the fountain were all huddled together on their knees, furiously working on something Aziraphale couldn’t see. 

“What is Mr. Tyler doing?” Aziraphale asked after another swallow of the warming drink. Neither Anathema nor Newt answered as Aziraphale moved closer to the group of men. Every one was swaddled in thick dark coats, making it difficult to understand where one man’s body ended and the other began. They spoke in hushed tones Aziraphale couldn’t make out. He turned to ask Anathema again, but she had gone off to Diedre’s stand. Aziraphale looked back at the group of men and thought of crows, of carrion birds, of cannibals.

The speakers by the fountain crackled, fading out into a harsh buzz before they cut out entirely. The men stood, forcing away Aziraphale’s morbid thoughts, and revealed the thing they had been working on.

“Good Lord,” Aziraphale breathed, dropping the styrofoam cup in his hand. The cider ran in sticky rivulets between the stones of the square as Aziraphale took a step back.

“Oh, Beatrice looks lovely this year,” a woman said from his right.

“Beatrice?” Aziraphale repeated, taking another step away.

Anathema appeared at his elbow. “Yes, for the Fall. Tyler was in charge of making her this year.”

Aziraphale glanced back at the Thing by the fountain, unable to believe it was supposed to be some simulacrum of a girl. It looked like a scarecrow, straw lashed together in bundles in an approximately human shape, matted cornsilk hair sticking out at odd angles. The worst part, the part that made Aziraphale want to turn around, to disappear into his house and forget about this _festival_ were the eyes. Beetle black apple seeds were stuck into the straw, dead and glistening. 

Anathema looped her arm through his. “When I first moved here, I thought it was so interesting.”

He made a noise in the back of his throat. Interesting was not the first word that came to mind.

“Apparently, it’s all about the harvest. That’s what the apples are about.”

Tyler’s men lifted the doll in their arms and then above their heads, causing a rotten apple necklace to bounce against the doll’s chest. Aziraphale thought he could smell them, sickly and sweet.

“C’mon,” Newt said, bumping Aziraphale’s other elbow. “We’re headed to the forest with her now.”

“The—the forest?”

Newt and Anathema were too close, pressed too tight against him on either side. The feeling of eyes on him returned but he couldn’t turn around. He closed his eyes and breathed. “I thought you all avoided the forest?”

“Not for the festival,” Newt said. Like that explained everything.

"To old Dagon’s pond!" someone else in the crowd shouted, drawing the attention of the entire village. Silence rippled through the square until another person echoed, “To old Dagon’s pond!”

Anathem and Newt hemmed him in, one on either side, walking him alongside the other villagers towards the forest. They must have walked past his house, but he didn’t register it. His tongue was heavy with apples and whiskey. His feet dragged through the fields between the village and the edge of the forest, pushed along in the current of silent people as the doll bobbed above them, cornsilk hair swaying gently.

Wherever they entered the forest was nowhere near where Aziraphale had seen the blackbird all those weeks ago. That place had been wild, overgrown with brambles. Here, the forest opened wide, a dark, hungry mouth.

They had barely stepped into the treeline when the entire group stopped moving. Aziraphale caught the scent of the water Agnes had brought to his house, the same reeking smell of still water and pond scum.

A fly buzzed by his ear and he swatted at it.

"This year, and every year," Tyler said from the front of the group, words clearly rote, "Beatrice falls."

From his place near the back of the group, Aziraphale could only see the barest hint of dark water and a few patches of algae. He could imagine the pond was large, stretching into the shadows of the forest, but he couldn’t be sure. 

The three men at the front of the group that held the doll, lifted it high above their heads and released it, letting it tumble with a splash into the murky water. It bobbed back to the surface, far too buoyant to sink to the bottom. The disturbed water released another wave of rancid smell, cloying enough that Aziraphale could taste it on the back of his tongue. Another fly buzzed nearby.

With a flash of relief, Aziraphale assumed it was over. A fall. It was a strange ritual, but at least it made a macabre sense. A straw doll falls into a pond. 

Then the villagers stepped up one by one to the pond’s reedy edge and withdrew something from their pockets. A stone. With horror, Aziraphale watched as each one set their stone on the doll's back until the weight became too much and the water swallowed it down. 

Aziraphale wanted to leave. He needed to leave. The pond bubbled as the straw displaced the water. Unperturbed, he villagers began to sing a cheery song, set to a bouncing tune. A fly buzzed past Aziraphale’s chin. An apple core bobbed to the surface of the pond before something pale, a gangrenous limb, appeared beneath the mottled water and pulled it back into the depths.

_No more need to lock your doors_

_No more fear of shadows in the halls_

_No more need to worry after Beatrice’s fall_

The villagers burst into laughter and clapped as they all filtered out of the forest. Aziraphale rushed to follow, not wanting to stay for a moment longer where he had seen that thing. He wanted to question it, to believe it was just the whisky, the confusion of the moment. But he knew more about the forest now.

As he stumbled out of the treeline, he could still taste pond water in the back of his throat, along with an uneasy tang of bile. He looked for Anathema and Newt as he walked back to the village. Unable to find them and growing more frustrated, he trailed the group of excited villagers back to the square in hopes of tracking them down and maybe getting an explanation for the thing he had just seen.

He paused in the square and looked around, but it was only full of strange faces. People he had only seen once or twice. 

“You owe me a list.”

A cool breath skated over the fine hairs at the nape of his neck and Aziraphale would have jumped if the familiar smell of woodsmoke and peat didn’t accompany the words. The scent overwhelmed the stench of pond water and he breathed a sigh of relief. It was immediately replaced by frustration at the stupid fey and his dramatics. He turned to Crowley and hissed, “What are you doing here?”

Crowley’s eyebrows went up. “I said, you owe me—”

Aziraphale fisted his hand in the sleeve of Crowley’s ratty black jacket and dragged him into the nearest alley. It smelled of damp stone between the cramped houses. “You can’t just appear in the middle of the village like this. Do you know what they think of fey here? They will burn you at the stake, or...or... _drown you_ or something and there is _nothing_ I can do to stop that if you insist on running around in your conspicuous ancient clothes with your _snake eyes_ and your _fangs_ and _scales and.._.” Aziraphale trailed off, breathing heavily, shocked at his own mounting distress. Why did he care what happened to Crowley?

Crowley blinked slowly and Aziraphale realized exactly how close they were standing and that his hands were still fisted in Crowley’s jacket. 

Aziraphale released him. 

Crowley cleared his throat. 

“I can control the scales, you know,” Crowley said after a beat. Aziraphale gave him a withering glare. “And the fangs.”

Aziraphale huffed. “Well, that’s...then why don't...you’re...you’re so _exasperating!_ ”

“Is it my fault you’re so bloody easy?” Crowley said, shoulders hunching in a shrug. “I haven’t been out of the forest in a century and all the humans that come and go from there have bigger things to be worried about than a little snake but you…” Crowley broke off and smiled. And now that Aziraphale knew the fang thing was on purpose, it was significantly less scary and slightly more endearing. “I liked knowing I could make you sweat. Now where’s my list?”

Aziraphale hesitated, his moment of bravery quickly fading. “About that…”


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hi folks, it's been a hot minute! I desperately wanted to be posting this during October (spooky month!), but my brain decided I was going to write an entirely different fic which I haven't even been posting (wahoo).  
> However, that did mean I cleared up a huge plot hole I was stuck on so I do think I know how this ends which is fabulous and may mean I will finish this promptly (also wahoo).  
> Shout out to euny_sloane for the beta!
> 
> CWs: discussions of suicide, like a lot of discussion of suicide including methods (if you'd like to skip this you can skip from "two heads are better than one" to "thick silence fell" and miss most of it)

"You know those wards won't do anything now that I’ve been inside," Crowley said as he followed the Aziraphale through the back door of his cottage.

Aziraphale rolled his eyes. "Yes, clearly. Since you are inside it right now. A few of the villagers were after me about them and I thought it better to put them up and avoid unwanted attention. If you’d believe it, I did actually move here to get some peace and quiet."

Crowley didn’t respond, nostrils flaring as he stepped into the kitchen. He inhaled deeply. “What is that smell?”

He sniffed again, flicking out his tongue which had grown long and forked and thin. Aziraphale’s stomach jerked in discomfort at the sight.

Crowley turned curious eyes on him. "How did you get water from Old Gray Gills?"

Aziraphale paused with his hand on the lock to the back door. "What?"

"The pond water,'' Crowley said with a gesture to the cottage at large. "Dagon doesn’t give it up to just anyone—wait. What are you trying to do with it?"

Aziraphale held up his hands in front of him as Crowley advanced on him, eyes narrowing. Aziraphale said, "Before you fly off the handle, I think it's important you know I asked for help from Agnes before we made our deal."

“The witches!” Crowley hissed. 

Aziraphale ignored him and continued talking. “ _Agnes_ ,” he corrected, “came by to help me find a way to prevent you from breaking into my home.”

“Pond scum can’t do that,” Crowley said, nose wrinkling with distaste. 

“I was _hoping_ ,” Aziraphale said pointedly as he walked into the kitchen to put on the kettle. “That I wouldn’t have to wake up with you in my bed again.”

Crowley propped his hip against the counter and grinned. The expression had a flirtatious edge. Only that couldn’t be. Aziraphale knew he had to be mistaken. 

But then Crowley said, “Way to hurt a bloke’s ego.”

Aziraphale fixed him with a dark look and ignored the little skip in his chest. Crowley was just the irritating fey that he wanted out of his life, not someone he should be swooning over. “Do you want tea? I’m afraid I can only offer it to you in a bowl since _someone_ stole all my cups.”

Crowley hopped up onto the counter.

“What on earth? Get down from there,” Aziraphale demanded, batting at his ankles.

Crowley kicked at his hands and opened the cupboards above the stove that had previously been empty, revealing precariously stacked teacups. He handed one to Aziraphale and pulled out another.

"Were these in my cupboard the whole time?" Aziraphale demanded as Crowley clambered down in an awkward tangle of limbs. 

"Yeah, what of it?" Crowley said. "What was I going to do? Bury your teacups in the garden?"

"I don't know! You have magical fey powers! For all I knew, you could magic them into a pocket dimension," Aziraphale said tartly, ripping the kettle off the burner just as it started to whistle.

"Pocket dimension," Crowley repeated to himself, doing that thing where he clicked the words in his mouth like he was considering them one at a time.

"I’m having earl grey tea. Is that fine for you?"

Crowley shrugged, so Aziraphale made him a cup. As it steeped, he gathered the sugar and milk and while he was in the refrigerator, the jar of gooseberry jam which he set on the counter.

"I thought you could have that," he offered. "Since you seemed to enjoy it."

Crowley's eyebrows shot up. For a brief moment, a genuine smile appeared on his face before he suppressed it and shrugged. "I can't give you anything for it."

"Consider it a gift," Aziraphale said. He removed the teabags from the tea and added a splash of milk to his own. He offered the sugar pot and milk jug to Crowley and watched in horror as the fey added four heaping spoonfuls of sugar to his teacup. Monstrous.

Crowley slurped at his tea ( _his hot sugar water_ , thought Aziraphale) and his grin returned. It was slight, but Aziraphale caught it before he hid it behind the edge of his cup.

“So your list,” Crowley began. “You said you were having some trouble with it.”

Aziraphale set his cup down on the kitchen table. “Right,” he said, going into the main room to retrieve the pad from his desk. “I just can’t think of anything reasonable.”

He handed the list to Crowley. The fey took it with his free hand and looked at the single item on the list. He frowned, lips moving as he whispered to himself, “Drow-ning.”

He looked up at Aziraphale. “That’s it?”

“Well, I thought that might be easy. You could get me out of the water straightforward enough,” he said, feeling put on the spot, pinned by Crowley’s snake eyes.

“One thing is hardly a list,” Crowley retorted. “You can’t just give me some jam and expect me to forget what you owe me.”

“But you _liked_ the jam,” Aziraphale said petulantly.

That earned him a warning hiss. Aziraphale clamped his mouth shut, feeling more irritated than frightened. 

“I helped you,” Crowley said, shoulders going up around his ears as he crossed the room, hips listing from side to side in a hypnotic sway. “You owe me this.”

Aziraphale’s heart rate picked up but he stood his ground. “I thought we could work on the list together.”

Crowley froze in his slow ambulation and peered at him curiously. “Work on it. Together.”

“Ye-yes,” Aziraphale said, not understanding Crowley’s flat intonation. “I must confess I had a great deal of trouble coming up with anything and...and as they say, two heads are better than one.”

Crowley stared at him for a long, unblinking moment before sliding into the kitchen chair and gesturing for Aziraphale to sit. He gathered his red hair in one hand and draped it in front of his right shoulder, toying with the ends. The pastel yellow kitchen wallpaper brought out the fiery orange highlights, putting Aziraphale in mind of roses at sunset.

He cleared his throat and picked up the pad of paper. “I was thinking it would have to be something minor and controllable.”

Crowley slurped loudly at his tea and raised an eyebrow.

“Traditional methods of, erm,” Aziraphale swallowed around the growing feeling of unease in his chest. “Of…”

“Suicide,” Crowley finished sharply.

“Right,” Aziraphale said. He just wouldn’t think about it. He could talk about it and not think about it. “I suspect most of them might be resistant to your sort of magical intervention.”

“What sort of methods are we talking about?” Crowley asked, tapping his finger against the drained tea cup. It was becoming infinitely clear that the fey had a lot of spare energy. He reminded Aziraphale of a new kitten: moody and rambunctious, unable to sit still. 

For some reason, Aziraphale doubted Crowley would enjoy the comparison.

“Well, overdose is quite typical,” Aziraphale said. He pushed away the image of his medication cupboard at the veterinary office back in the City. _Not thinking about that_ , he told himself. It was easy, something he’d told himself many times before Crowley had ever entered his life.

“Why wouldn’t that work?” Crowley asked. It seemed an earnest question.

“There’s really no way to prevent me, er, getting poisoned,” Aziraphale said. His hands were sweating. He didn’t like this conversation. “Can we discuss something else?”

Crowley narrowed his eyes. “I thought we were discussing the list?”

“Yes, but not—I’d prefer to discuss different alternatives. Perhaps you could prevent something heavy from falling on me,” Aziraphale said even though it sounded ridiculous, overly slapstick and foolish. But he didn’t want to think about guns or pills or—

“Hmm, what about hanging? All the executions used to be hanging. That took a while, didn’t it? I could cut the rope,” Crowley said thoughtfully.

Aziraphale rubbed at his neck. “Yes, I suppose you could. But I don’t—that’s perhaps a bit far. Could we mark that down as a last resort?”

Crowley shrugged. “It is a bit violent. I can’t say I’d be willing to hang myself. Could snap your neck or something.”

“Right…”

Thick silence fell and Aziraphale stared at his steadily cooling tea. “I’m sorry I haven’t been more helpful,” he ventured finally. This was miserable. “If there’s anything else I can do that’s not…not…well, this, I’ll do it.”

Crowley peered at him curiously. “You really mean that, don’t you?”

“Well, yes,” Aziraphale said, confused. “I know you don’t believe me, but when I found you in the road, I meant well. Back in the city I was a veterinarian. Do you know what that is?”

Crowley frowned deeply and shook his head. 

“I took care of animals. Sick animals. And you were sick, so I took care of you. Fed you, kept you warm and, ah...safe. I didn’t mean for all this to happen.”

Crowley stared at him for a very long time. Long enough that the sounds of the afternoon began to creep into the kitchen: the chirping of birds in the field, the sounds of the villagers still in the square. Aziraphale shivered.

“I’m hungry,” Crowley said finally, turning to look out the window in the kitchen door. “Do you have anything besides that jam?”

Aziraphale grimaced. “Not much, I’m afraid. I could make a few eggs and toast.”

“I like eggs,” Crowley said, perking up.

Aziraphale sighed and stood. “What have you been eating?”

“Been spending a lot of time in snake form. Snacking on crickets,” Crowley said, with a flash of fang. It sent a little thrill through Aziraphale that he chose not to examine.

“Right, well. Eggs,” he said, bustling to the refrigerator. He could at least make some food for both of them. That should be easy.

Crowley leaned back in the chair, kicking up one of his feet onto another of the dining chairs and looking very much at home. “So. This drowning business. You like that idea?”

“ _Like_ is a strong word,” Aziraphale said between placing the pan on the hob and putting the bread in the toaster. “I find it not as dread-inducing as putting a gun to my head. Does that suffice?”

“Fair. Can’t say I’d want to put a gun to my head,” Crowley said, rocking back and forth on the back legs of the chair. The pose made his impossibly long legs look even longer; the tightness of his black breeches was emphasized each time he flexed his thighs to push back in the chair.

Aziraphale tore his gaze away to focus on the pan on the hob. He did not like where his thoughts were heading.

“So, how do we go about this?” Crowley asked.

Aziraphale cracked an egg into the pan and it sizzled. “Well, I only have a shower so drowning in the bathtub is out. I think we both know the forest is a no-go.”

“There’s a swimming hole not too far from here,” Crowley offered.

That got Aziraphale’s attention. “How did you find a swimming hole?”

Crowley looked at the table, cheeks turning red. “I’ve been bored, alright? The only thing to do is explore really. It’s secluded, so no one will find us. Bit of a trek though.”

“We could take my car,” Aziraphale offered as he took the eggs off the heat to finish cooking.

Crowley’s head shot up. “You have a car?”

“What?” 

“Can I drive it?”

“No!”

“Can I see it?”

Taken aback by the sudden enthusiasm, Aziraphale stammered, “Why?”

Crowley stood up so quick the chair he was sitting in fell backwards onto the tile. “There was a bloke in Hastur’s pit who talked about them all the time.”

“ _Hastur’s pit_?”

“He said they went faster than carriages and played music inside and they were all different colors.”

Aziraphale held up his hands to stop the wave of words. “Don’t get too excited. Mine hardly has all the bells and whistles. You’ve really never seen a car before?”

Crowley prickled defensively. “I haven’t been out of the forest since I was trapped. When was I supposed to see a car?”

 _Trapped_. Aziraphale filed that away for the future.

“Well, let’s eat our eggs and then we can—”

“Sod the eggs!”

“Crowley,” Aziraphale admonished. “I’m not eating cold eggs.”

Crowley made a rude noise, but took the plate when Aziraphale offered it to him. He sullenly righted the chair he had knocked over and ate far too fast but Aziraphale was not about to be rushed. It’s not as if eating one fried egg took that long. 

“You’ll need to change first,” Aziraphale said while he cleaned the plates and Crowley buzzed around him like an excitable puppy. 

“Why?” Crowley asked. “M’decent. It’s not like I’ll scandalize anyone.”

“You look like you dropped out of a period film,” Aziraphale said, tugging on his wrist and trying to get him to follow him to the bedroom. 

“Films are those watchable stories, right? Ligur’d brought in this girl what made those. She was right proud of ‘em.”

Aziraphale stopped in his tracks and gave Crowley an odd look. What was that accent? Like something from the slums of the City. Hardly the cadence he’d grown used to from the fey. “So I gather you were human once?”

Crowley froze. “What of it?”

“I’m just curious where you were from. Your accent.”

“We can’t all be posh as you,” Crowley said sharply.

Aziraphale scoffed. “Hardly posh. You should have seen my flat in the City.”

He let the topic drop. Crowley’s hackles were up. They’d been getting along and Aziraphale didn’t need him flying off the handle again. “Here. Change into my jumper. I should have some glasses around here somewhere. Your eyes really are the worst of it. If you can just keep the scales put away, then I think we’ll be alright.”

He turned around to rummage through one of his boxes of summer things. He wasn’t one to sunbathe, but even he had a pair of sunglasses. If Crowley didn’t want to be identified as something inhuman immediately, he needed to disguise himself at least a little. 

With a quiet cry of success, he salvaged an old pair of aviators from a bag he’d taken to the shore what had to be years ago. He turned around, holding up his prize and froze. Crowley had stripped off his black waistcoat and was busy peeling his shirt over his head.

Aziraphale had known the man was thin. He was tall and willowy and _snakey,_ but Aziraphale had given no actual thought to what sort of body would be beneath the draping linen of his shirt. Perhaps he should have because then he wouldn’t have been struck dumb by the expanse of pale skin, the thin muscles pulled over a delicate rib cage. Black scales rippled down his spine and disappeared into his waistband as he tossed his shirt on the ground. He turned the jumper over in his hands and grimaced.

“Are all your clothes the color of porridge?” Crowley asked with a sneer.

Aziraphale choked on his tongue but it seemed Crowley didn’t expect an answer, just pulled the jumper over his head and pushed the sleeves up over his wrists so they no longer swallowed his hands.

Dizzy with the image of Crowley’s bare chest, Aziraphale handed him the sunglasses. “We should put your hair up and you should wear these.”

“What are these?” Crowley asked, holding them up to the light. “Spectacles?”

“Sunglasses,” Aziraphale said. “They’ll hide your eyes.”

“Are the villagers really that sensitive?”

“They’re all superstitious,” Azirahale said before going into the kitchen to retrieve the rubber band from the celery.

Band in hand, he went back to Crowley. “Turn around,” he said, tapping him on the shoulder. Crowley obeyed, to Aziraphale's surprise. 

“They all think the forest is evil. And today I watched them drown a scarecrow made of fruit,” Aziraphale said, carefully and clinically gathering Crowley’s hair in a low bun. Standing so close to him, Aziraphale could feel that curious absence of heat, the way his body absorbed every hint of warmth around him. 

He looped the rubber band into Crowley’s hair, but it caught on a knot. The fey swore and scrambled away, a low hiss echoing in his chest.

Aziraphale held up his hands. “Apologies. I just— your hair is very long and it will draw attention if people see you. Do you—would you mind if I brushed it? It’s full of tangles.”

Crowley hesitated, but then dropped onto the edge of the bed. “Fine.”

Aziraphale chastised himself as he retrieved a hairbrush. What was he doing brushing Crowley’s hair? They weren’t little girls at a slumber party. Except Crowley’s copper hair was so beautiful and it had been so soft when Aziraphale had touched it. Did the fey brush each other’s hair? Aziraphale cleared his throat and went back into the bedroom.

He approached Crowley slowly, saying, “Let me just…” Gently gathering the strands, Aziraphale brushed out the ends with as much care as he could manage. With each stroke he could see tension leach out of Crowley’s shoulders and by the time he was done, Crowley’s hair was gleaming, shiny as a new penny. 

He ran his fingers through it once, an unnecessary indulgence, and then pulled it back with the elastic, looping it twice. It almost looked fashionable like that. Like Crowley was a fashionable barista in the City. 

“There,” Aziraphale said. “Now for the sunglasses.”

Crowley slipped them on and gave him a shit eating grin.

“Alright,” Aziraphale said with a sigh. “No need to be an arse. I’m showing you my car because you asked, you know.”

Removing the tarp from the little car beside Aziraphale’s cottage was slower than usual because Crowley tried to help. He had no idea what he was doing and his hands kept getting in the way.

“Stand over there,” Aziraphale said finally, gesturing for him to move and stay beside the wall of the house.

Crowley huffed and crossed his arms over his chest but did as he was told.

Once the car was revealed, Crowley was practically vibrating with excitement. 

“It’s nothing special,” Aziraphale said when he finally removed the tarp. The car was a little brown, practical thing that had served him well enough in the city and now took him to the nearest town whenever he needed anything Tadfield couldn’t provide. “There are loads more exciting cars. Much more expensive ones.”

Crowley touched the hood carefully, running his fingers over the metal. He grinned. Aziraphale marked how truly expressive his face was, how it folded into a smile so easily, dimples creasing his cheeks. “Never seen anything like it.”

Aziraphale watched Crowley flit around the car, poking at the doors and windows and grinning like a loon. What must it be like to disappear from the world for so long and reappear to find everything so different? If he was this enthusiastic about a car, what else would he enjoy?

“Would you like to watch a film tonight?”

Crowley’s head shot up on the other side of the car. “What?” he asked, mouth ajar. Without showing his fangs and scales and with his eyes hidden, he looked almost entirely human. 

“You said you’d never seen one. I own a few. Nothing particularly remarkable but I thought you might be interested.”

Crowley stood up. “Can we go on a drive first?”

“No,” Aziraphale said with a sigh. He forestalled Crowley’s objection with a hand and said, “We are driving somewhere _tomorrow_.”

Crowley grunted and patted the top of the car rather lovingly for someone who had just seen it for the first time. “See you soon.”

With that rather adorable proclamation, they went back inside.

* * *

“The colors are so bright,” Crowley said, scooting close enough to the small television that his nose could touch the screen.

Aziraphale had selected an old animated version of Cinderella. If Crowley had never seen a film, he didn’t think starting with explosions was a very good idea. Something for children was most likely appropriate.

And because it was Crowley’s first film experience, Aziraphale had decided to do the thing properly. So he’d walked to the store in town and purchased popcorn and sweets which Crowley was devouring with enthusiasm.

“I think there are superior films out there, but this is a classic,” Aziraphale said from his armchair. He’d been worried about not having somewhere for Crowley to sit, but the fey had folded himself onto the ground without complaint and seemed thrilled to sit right next to the television.

“Could we watch another?” Crowley asked, touching the screen with buttery fingers as the credits rolled. 

“It’s getting late, my dear,” Aziraphale said hesitantly, not wanting to set Crowley off but he had certainly had enough socialization for the day and he was _tired_. “I’d better get to bed.”

Crowley frowned deeply, another of his strangely elastic expressions, and he stood, gathering the popcorn bowl without complaint. The look on his face made something niggle in the back of Aziraphale’s mind.

“Where have you been going when you’re not bothering me?” Aziraphale asked as he stood.

Crowley looked at his feet and grumbled something.

“I couldn’t quite hear that.”

“I just slept in the fields, alright,” Crowley snapped between bared teeth.

Aziraphale put his hands on his hips. “That’s hardly safe.”

“I’m not some little human. It’s fine.”

“It is _autumn_ and it is _cold_. You’re staying here,” Aziraphale said, tipping his chin back. Crowley’s mouth dropped open.

“Weren’t you just trying to get rid of me?”

“I was trying to make sure you couldn’t wake me up in the middle of the night with a knife,” Aziraphale pointed out. “Letting you sleep here is hardly the same thing.”

Crowley tipped his head curiously. “And we’re going to get started on the list tomorrow?”

Truly a serpent with a one track mind. “Yes, don’t worry. This is a temporary arrangement.”

Crowley stared at him for a long moment and then seemed to come to a decision, chuffing in slight disbelief. “Fine. It’s been uncomfortable to sleep in the dirt anyway. It’s good I wear black else you’d think I looked like a tramp. My trousers are filthy.”

“Let’s get you out of them then,” Aziraphale said and, at Crowley’s shark like grin, he immediately regretted it.

Blushing furiously, Aziraphale bustled down the hall and opened his dresser. He pulled out an old sleep shirt and a pair of pajama pants. Crowley would be swimming in them. He was basically all bones compared to Aziraphale’s well-padded frame. 

He thrust them into Crowley’s hands. The serpent was still smirking. 

“Stop that,” Aziraphale huffed.

“Stop what,” Crowley asked innocently. “M’not doing anything.”

“With your face.” Aziraphale tried to keep his tone severe, but it was difficult with that smirk, and the wisps of red hair that had escaped his low bun.

“It’s just my face, ” said Crowley, smile growing.

“Well, stop it.”

Scales rippled over Crowley’s face and lingered on his cheekbones and when the fey smiled, his teeth were sharp. Now that Aziraphale knew he was doing it on purpose, his heart raced for reasons he desperately did not want to examine, but he knew had something to do with the way they’d feel against his skin. _Oh, dear._

“Is that better?” Crowley asked, flickering his tongue over one of his fangs. It was long and forked again, and Aziraphale was mesmerized by the serpentine movement of it.

Aziraphale’s knees felt very strange. 

“Go get changed.” He flapped his hand in the direction of the bathroom and willed himself not to blush any harder than he was. “I’ll set up something in the living room for you. I’m afraid I don’t have a guest bed.”

Crowley smirked and did as he was bade, leaving Aziraphale alone in his bedroom with his racing heart. 


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shout out to Euny_Sloane for the beta! <3
> 
> CWs: attempted self-drowning, discussions of suicide, fighting, discussions of death, discussions of torture, shoplifting
> 
> Honestly, though, the lightest chapter yet

Aziraphale looked out over the lake and hesitated. Crowley nudged him with his elbow. “The sooner you do this, the sooner it's over.”

Aziraphale sighed. Crowley was right of course. It didn’t make it easier. 

He waded into the shallow water, wincing at how cold it was. They’d chosen this particular secluded swimming hole outside of Tadfield so no interlopers could interrupt their little attempt to break the life debt. That being said, Aziraphale still wished it could have been happening in a nice jacuzzi tub where his lungs weren’t seizing up at the icy temperature. Though, perhaps that would help the cause.

“Hurry up,” Crowley said.

“Would _you_ like to drown?” Aziraphale snapped, casting an irritated look back at Crowley. The fey looked ridiculous in Aziraphale’s tan sweater. It swamped his thin frame and tan was certainly not his color.

Crowley let out a dramatic groan that made Aziraphale want to throw something at him. 

When the water was up to his chest, Aziraphale sucked in a deep breath and took a final look back at the shore. “You’ll come get me in two minutes?” he confirmed. 

Crowley rolled his eyes, a gesture so over-exaggerated that Aziraphale could see it even at a distance. “Yes, we went over this.”

“Just checking. You seem the forgetful sort,” Aziraphale said.

Crowley bobbed his head with a mocking smile and Aziraphale huffed in irritation.

“Tally ho, I suppose,” Aziraphale said and dove under.

It was awfully quiet beneath the water. With his eyes closed, everything was dark and cold. He let all of his breath out in a whoosh as the pressure built in his ears. His lungs began to burn and a crushing sensation settled in, fear gripping his throat. What if Crowley didn’t help? What if he died? He didn’t really want to die. Black spots began to pop in his vision and he gasped, sucking in water, just as he was lifted from the lake. Skinny arms dragged him to the shallows as he coughed. Silt and mud caked his legs from where Crowley was dragging him. 

Crowley looked down at him for a moment. His long red hair was wet, slicked back from his face and his clothes were stuck to his skin. Aziraphale averted his gaze, not wanting to notice the curved lines of his hips any more than he already had.

“That should do,” Crowley said with a little satisfied click of his tongue. He snapped his fingers and disappeared.

Aziraphale stared at the place he had been. Had Crowley just abandoned him at the lake? The utter bastard.

Aziraphale hauled himself to standing, disgusted by the state of his skin. Of course the fey would leave him to deal with the aftermath. He didn’t need him anymore. 

Looking into the absolutely normal (and not haunted) copse of trees they had hauled themselves through to get to the lake, Aziraphale frowned. He was going to have to walk through that, sopping wet, in order to get to his car and get home. The towel he brought to the shore provided meager drying capabilities and was an absolute mess by the time he was done.

“It didn’t work.”

Aziraphale whirled around and saw Crowley, still soaked through, standing behind him. His voice sounded strained and he looked distraught but Aziraphale didn’t give two figs about Crowley, the awful, abandoning, selfish— 

“Bastard!” Aziraphale shouted, already advancing on him. He hadn’t fought anyone in his entire life but he thought he might make an exception. “You left me!”

Crowley took a step back as if surprised Aziraphale was angry. “I was going to come back!”

“Like hell you were,” Aziraphale said, shoving the fey in the chest. “If that had worked you would have forgotten all about me.”

“It’s not like you were going to die out here or something,” Crowley said defensively, shoving Aziraphale back. Aziraphale tripped on a loose rock and fell on his arse in the mud. The lake lapped at the shore and he stared at his legs as if he couldn't believe what just happened.

Frustrated and with no outlet, Aziraphale shoved at Crowley's shins. The fey kicked at him, but over-balanced and fell beside him with a satisfying sound of pain.

Aziraphale threw some mud at his face. Crowley's head snapped up and he bared his teeth. In seconds, Aziraphale found himself on his back, but whatever magic protected him kicked in before Crowley could do anything and the fey fell to the side with an aborted yell.

Aziraphale struggled to sit up and scraped mud from his neck. 

"If you're done, could you magick us clean?” Aziraphale asked.

Crowley grumbled something, smearing mud off his own face.

“Speak up. You have an awful habit of mumbling.”

“My powers don’t really...they’ve not really ever worked that way. Load of smoke and mirrors is what it is,” Crowley said, levering himself to his feet. He sounded despondent. “I can turn into a snake. Pop myself from place to place but practical things? The prince never let me do that sort of thing.”

“The prince?” Aziraphale asked.

Crowley gave him his hand and helped him up before turning back to stare at the lake. No answer was forthcoming. Water lapped at the muddy shore, the sound steady as a heartbeat.

“They’re not letting you back in,” Aziraphale said, repeating Crowley’s earlier statement.

“They said I can’t trick the magic.” Crowley crossed his arms over his thin chest, like he was trying to hug himself. The wool of the jumper bunched awkwardly, mud smearing all along the sides. His words were quiet when he spoke again. “They laughed at me.”

A cold wind whistled through the trees behind them and made Aziraphale shiver. His clothes stuck to his skin, mud turning to an itchy crust on his skin with every second they stood by the water. 

“Come back to mine. We’ll get cleaned up,” Aziraphale offered softly. He wrapped his hand around Crowley’s elbow and tried to untangle his limbs. He looked so awkward, so wan. Aziraphale didn’t think Crowley would appreciate a hug, but the old desire to comfort rose inside Aziraphale anyway. “Watch another film.”

Crowley shot him a glare, a bullish set to his jaw. “You don’t need to coddle me.”

“Don’t think of it as coddling then,” Aziraphale said and Crowley began to walk. “We watch a film and you explain. I have an awful lot of questions. Agnes and Anathema won’t explain anything.”

“That’s because witches aren’t good for anything,” Crowley grunted.

Aziraphale didn’t exactly agree, but he didn’t want to start a fight either. They walked back to his car in silence as the mud dried on their skin and clothes.

* * *

By the time they got back into the cottage, their clothes were both flaking off chunks of dried mud and peppered with burrs and sticks. Aziraphale wanted to tear his hair out, but his mouth was so dry that first he wanted to drink his weight in water.

Crowley stood awkwardly on the kitchen tile, watching him, while Aziraphale gulped down one glass and then another. His legs ached from marching through the woods, his arms were sore from swimming. No matter how he felt, Crowley looked worse. 

Some algae was still caked in Crowley’s hair, making it clump on one side. It seemed it didn't matter to him. That made sense. They'd finally done something to get him home and it had failed. Perhaps he felt hopeless.

Aziraphale gestured to the bath. "Go take a shower. You'll feel better."

Crowley frowned at him. "What?"

"Show—do you know what a shower is?"

Crowley looked at him blankly and Aziraphale grabbed his wrist to drag him through the house. Pushing him into the small bathroom, he flipped on the light and blinked away the spots that flashed in his eyes at the sudden brightness. 

In the harsh fluorescent light, Crowley looked drawn out and pale. He stared into the distance, unfocused. Aziraphale squeezed his hand gently.

"Crowley," he said, putting aside his frustration in favor of kindness. "You need to shower."

Aziraphale moved to the shower and turned it on, holding his hand under the spray to test the temperature. He looked back at Crowley, expecting to see the usual excitement Crowley exhibited in the face of something new, but all there was was that same faded expression.

He tugged on Crowley's elbow. "Come on," Aziraphale said. He moved to leave so Crowley could undress and get clean in peace, but Crowley simply stepped into the spray without taking anything off. He just stood there, immobile, water sheeting down through his tangled hair.

Aziraphale grabbed his wrists and ignored the water soaking his cuffs. "Goodness gracious, Crowley, what on earth is wrong?"

"I'm never getting back in," Crowley said, blinking at Aziraphale. 

"Not never," Aziraphale said, not releasing his hands. "I _said_ I would help."

Crowley pulled his hands away. "You don't understand. Dagon told me the first time and I didnt listen. I can't fake my way out of this. I'm stuck here until I save you. Actually save you. Not some stupid scheme. The magic doesn't work that way."

"That's fine!" Aziraphale argued. "You'll save me eventually. It’s fine."

"And if it's not?" Crowley demanded. "If your life just runs out like human lives do? I’ll die too.” Crowley sighed. “I die too, Aziraphale."

"Oh."

Crowley hung his head. Filthy water ran from the long strands of his hair and onto the white porcelain floor of the shower, swirling around the drain before it disappeared.

Aziraphale had no idea what to do so he grabbed his cheap mixed berry shampoo and squirted some into his hands. Crowley needed his hair washed.

"Come here," Aziraphale said and he stepped into the cubicle.

"What?" Crowley asked, turning to look at him, revealing red-rimmed eyes. Aziraphale had never expected to see Crowley so close to tears and it made his heart hurt.

"I'm going to wash your hair.”

"Why?"

"It'll be nice," Aziraphale snapped. There went Aziraphale’s soft feelings.

Crowley peeled off his wet jumper and let it fall to the floor of the shower with a squelch as he stepped out of the spray. Aziraphale studiously avoided looking at his chest.

"Haven't had anyone wash my hair since I was a kid."

"Then it'll be a treat," Aziraphale offered. He sank his hands into the fine strands. Crowley hummed in approval and his eyes drifted shut as Aziraphale scratched over his scalp, working the shampoo into a lather. 

Muddy water filled the floor of the cubicle, struggling to drain as the spray rinsed the mud from both of their bodies. Aziraphale’s arms ran clean with soap and eventually he urged Crowley back. "Tip your head. You've got to rinse."

Crowley allowed him to maneuver him back under the spray. The water ran clear from his hair, turning it a dark auburn. With his eyes shut, Crowley looked normal. Human.

Aziraphale swallowed around the dangerous emotion in his gut. It was simply the heat of the water and the intimacy of the moment and nothing else whatsoever. He pushed Crowley’s hair back from his face and paused at the sight of something black at Crowley’s temple. Closer examination revealed it to be a tattoo of a snake. He passed his thumb over it in curiosity and to his surprise, he found it was warm.

"Let me help you too," Crowley said, eyes flashing open. The slitted pupils searched his face and just as Aziraphale was certain he was going to decline, a yes slipped from his mouth.

Crowley's hands were in his hair, more gentle than he could have imagined.

"Sorry for attacking you out by the lake,'' Crowley said as Aziraphale’s eyes drifted shut. "It's...the other fey aren't exactly a friendly bunch. You learn to defend yourself. I forget you're not like that."

Aziraphale’s stomach was unbearably hot. His clothes stuck to his skin.

"To be fair," Aziraphale said, voice unusually tight. "I started it."

Crowley helped him rinse his hair and Aziraphale got out of the shower, wrapping a towel around his wet clothes and hoping it gave him a modicum of modesty. "You can...er, finish without me. I'll just...make us dinner, shall i?"

Crowley cocked his head and then nodded. "Sure," he said, drawing out the word with a slight hiss.

Aziraphale scuttled out of the steamy room and changed quickly in his bedroom. Everything would be fine.

* * *

When Aziraphale shoved the plate of microwaved leftover chicken and peas in front of Crowley, he said, "Explain."

Crowley was already chewing on the chicken when he replied, "Huh?"

"You've said the most ominous nonsense. ‘Hastur’s pit. The prince.’ You manifested a flaming knife to scare me. Not to speak of the awful inside out snake thing you turned into in my living room. Explain yourself. I'm going to help you and you’re going to explain yourself."

Crowley swallowed. "Alright," he said hesitantly. “Suppose I agreed.”

"What are you?"

"A fey."

Aziraphale scowled. "Have you always been fey?"

“No.”

“What were you before?”

"A human."

"Can we not play twenty questions?" Aziraphale demanded, frustrated by the single word answers.

"You started it!"

"Just explain!"

"What do you want to know?"

"Everything! I just—I don’t know what to ask."

Crowley put down his fork. "I used to live in the City, alright? Stole from folks like you, posh folks. A lifestyle like that catches up with you and I ended up on the road, trying to find a safe place to settle for a bit. I headed north, but it was winter and I had to take shelter during a rough patch of weather. I found some trees and you know..."

"The forest," Aziraphale said quietly.

Crowley nodded, a far off look on his face.

"It's not a normal place. S’full of old magicks. It feeds on...anyway. And the fey, we guard it. And Beelzebub, the Prince, they’re in charge of all of us. I don't know how it works, but Tadfield has some sort of protection from the place. The forest doesn’t eat any humans from around here—instead it picks up strays. Travelers from the south. People like me."

Crowley sullenly poked at his peas and Aziraphale asked gently, "But the forest didn’t eat you."

"It would've. Dumb luck, that. I stumbled upon some trees in a clearing. I don't know how I found them. honestly. I've had about a hundred years to think about it, but I was hungry. I’d been on the road for days and these trees...it was an orchard, well kept. I thought, ‘That's weird, an orchard in a forest, but whoever keeps these won't miss an apple, I’ll grab one and be on my way,’ But I took a bite and it was the worst thing I've ever tasted. It turned to worms in my mouth.

"Beelzebub was so mad. I should have been food for the forest, they said, should have been fodder for the pit. But I ate the apple and I guess that made me one of them. Only the prince said that didn't mean I wouldn't have to earn it. 100 years in the forest like an errand boy, doing whatever anyone told me whenever they told me to do it, and my first night out was that snowstorm. I was supposed to bring back a human. Earn my place. Instead I met you."

"And I ruined everything," Aziraphale breathed.

"Technically, you saved me," Crowley said but he sounded sad. 

Dinner was silent, tense. Crowley sullenly picked at his food until Aziraphale couldn't bear it anymore.

"You know it's not all bad," he said. "There are good things in the human world. You liked my car. There's plenty more things like that."

Crowley pushed his peas around on his plate. "What sorts of things?"

"Food, for one," Aziraphale said, thinking of all the wonderful restaurants he’d left behind in the City. Maybe they could go on a day trip. "There are scads of films to watch. Computers. The internet. Oh! I bet you'd like games."

"What? Like dice?" Crowley wrinkled his nose.

"No," Aziraphale scoffed. "Computer games or, I suppose they’re called video games, mostly. Like...oh, I suppose I don't know much about them, but they're quite like films. You simply control the characters."

Crowley perked up.

"I prefer books. But you don't…" Aziraphale didn't exactly know how to broach this subject, unsure if it was sensitive or not. "Do you know how to read?"

Crowley's mouth twisted into an impossible shape, a sort of shrugging frown. "Taught myself. Better at reading than writing."

"Well," Aziraphale said, tactfully as he could manage. "Reading and writing are quite important nowadays, so perhaps we could practice that occasionally."

The fey grunted noncommittally and shoved some peas in his mouth. 

"However, I think we may want to get you some new clothes first."

Tugging on the front of his third borrowed jumper, this one in light blue, Crowley said, "Bit frumpy, yeah."

Aziraphale bristled and Crowley rushed to add, "N, they look nice on you. I just mean...too big on me. It’s not...you look...yeah."

Aziraphale blushed and gathered the plates. "Right. Tomorrow we'll go to the City. Perhaps I can rustle up something a bit less _frumpy_ for you."

Crowley mumbled something and for once, Aziraphale didn't ask him to repeat himself.

* * *

Crowley tried very hard to be cool in the passenger seat of the car and failed rather miserably. He rubbernecked and fidgeted in his seat, peering over the dash, out the window, twisting in his seat like a serpent. It was disconcerting and distracting and Aziraphale did his best to focus on the road.

“You could go faster,” Crowley said, at one point about halfway to the City. “I feel like you could go faster.”

“I could,” Aziraphale acknowledged politely. “But there are speed limits for a reason.”

“If you let me drive, I’d go faster,” Crowley huffed.

“I am _never_ letting you drive.”

Crowley ignored him and peered out the window again. Today Aziraphale had lent him the only black thing in his closet, a long sleeved undershirt that hung off Crowley’s frame almost comically. He looked more at home in the color, though, even if the size was wrong.

When they arrived in the City, Crowley was all wide eyes behind the sunglasses Aziraphale had required he wear. He kept staring, craning his neck up at the height of the buildings, stopping in the middle of the sidewalk to look at a parking meter until Aziraphale noticed and had to go back to get him. 

"It's so clean," Crowley murmured, drawing close beside him as the crowd filtered past them. Aziraphale wondered if the passersby could feel the way he sucked the heat from the space around them, or if it simply registered as an autumn chill. 

"And these stone roads. They’re so smooth," he said, looking out into the busy intersection. "Some of the people in the forest said...but I…"

"The people in Hastur's pit?" Aziraphale asked. Crowley had explained that bit too, though Aziraphale thought he glossed over the worst of it. Apparently, the forest liked to eat the humans after they had spent enough time soaked in fear.

"Like marinating meat," Crowley had said the night before while eating licorice as the credits rolled on their second film of the evening. "Hastur's in charge of the torture that makes 'em taste good to the forest."

Crowley had explained he didn’t get very involved in the torture, but he was in charge of keeping the humans alive while they went through what was essentially a tenderization process. So he got to know quite a few and they told him stories about the world outside.

"Let's get you some new clothes," Aziraphale said when Crowley didn't answer, pulled him into the shops. "Then we can sight-see."

What Aziraphale did not consider was that Crowley had no concept of a department store. He walked in, immediately drifting to a display of glitzy high-heeled shoes where he picked one up by a strap to examine it.

"Aziraphale, what is this?" he asked with the same perpetual curiosity that had him finger deep in gooseberry jam less than a week ago.

Aziraphale took the shoe away before he damaged it. "That is called a stiletto heel and while I'm certain it would make your legs look lovely, I think we should focus on replacing your clothes."

Crowley shrugged and allowed Aziraphale to return the shoe to its display before sauntering off to look at watches. The rest of the visit was more of the same. Over and over he had to stop Crowley from breaking something and return him to addressing his lack of wardrobe.

It was exhausting.

"Quack, quack," Crowley said in a fair impression of a duck as he opened and closed the mouth of a kettle shaped like a duck after somehow managing to get them lost in the kitchen section. "Look, Aziraphale. A duck."

Aziraphale bit his lip and tried not to laugh. It wouldn’t do to encourage him. "Crowley."

"Quack."

He tried to wrestle the kettle away but Crowley held it up and out of reach. 

"Trousers, you fiend. You need trousers."

"What I need is a duck kettle," Crowley said firmly, quacking the kettle.

"Absolutely not," Aziraphale replied. "As I am financing this venture, I am vetoing any and all duck-related appliances."

"Fine," Crowley huffed and he put the kettle back, but not before clacking the steam valve a final time.

Helping Crowley find clothes was significantly easier once Aziraphale got him on task. He preferred black things and—no help to Aziraphale’s heart rate at all—apparently the tighter the better. 

"Oh, I look good," the fey said in front of the mirror outside the changing rooms, curling his tongue behind his teeth as he hooked his fingers in the belt loops of the tightest jeans Aziraphale had ever seen. He turned back to Aziraphale. "What do you think?"

"Not very practical," Aziraphale said and thank goodness he didn't sound as flustered as he felt. 

"So? Am I going to be doing loads of manual labor? I think not. No, these'll do nicely," Crowley said with a wiggle of his hips. "What’s fashionable up top these days?"

Aziraphale handed him the pile of shirts he had picked out to try on, but had a feeling Crowley might make him get everything in a smaller size.

"Do you like _any_ colors?" Aziraphale asked over the changing room door.

"Mehhh, red’s alright," Crowley said. "But when I went all snakey my clothes changed too and I think the all black look suits me."

Crowley stepped out of the changing room. "Don’t you?"

Aziraphale bit his tongue so hard he thought it might bleed. He had no idea where Crowley had gotten the idea, but he'd paired a tight gray v neck shirt with a suit jacket, the cut of which made his shoulders look broader, his hips slimmer and made Aziraphale very much need to sit down.

"You look very nice," Aziraphale said diplomatically, trying to ignore the way that his heart skipped a beat at the sight.

Crowley arched a single brow before turning to the mirror and adjusting the jacket.

"This'll do nicely," he said, sucking on his teeth. "Do you still think I should get a haircut?" He undid the bun at the nape of his neck and his copper hair unfurled around his shoulders.

"I do think so," Aziraphale said with some regret. Crowley did have lovely hair.

The fey shrugged. "Could do with a change.The ends are getting ratty. Any suggestions?"

Aziraphale started, realizing he was staring at Crowley’s reflection. "We can ask the barber."

Crowley did up his hair and turned back to Aziraphale. "Alright. Lead on."

They checked out, Crowley only getting distracted once (by a display of calculators of all things) and as Aziraphale paid, he poked at a display of sunglasses by the register.

"I'm not paying for something that absurdly expensive," Aziraphale said when he saw the price tag. He could afford it, but it seemed a ridiculous expense when the aviators worked just fine.

It was when they left and Crowley slipped the designer shades onto his face anyway that Aziraphale spluttered in dismay.

"What?" Crowley said, absurdly pleased. "I used to be a thief for a living."

"You can't just steal, Crowley. It could get us both in trouble," Aziraphale hissed as they loaded the car.

"That’s what I’ve got my magic for," Crowley said with a shit-eating grin and the glasses on his face rippled like a mirage. "Can’t do shit for real, but I can make you see things. No one will suspect a thing."

"I'd really rather you didn't steal."

"Alright. Alright,” Crowley conceded as he slipped into the passenger seat. "Where to?"

"The barber. Then I think it's time for lunch."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I may have retconned in this chapter that Crowley can't do real magic. I don't think I had him do any real magic prior to this chapter but I have to go back and check again. Consider this note a firm edit.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> long time no see! I've been writing a lot of other stuff and going back and forth on how I wanted to proceed with the ending of this fic. I made some decisions so here we are. You might see the chapter count go up because I split this chapter in 2.
> 
> unbeta'ed now so things might be less tight than they used to be. forgive me for typos. I write on my phone so much and then editing on my computer I end up missing whole words because my eyes start to cross.
> 
> CW: legit suicidal ideation here with thoughts of self harm, drinking (not as coping but as "canon typical and friendly drinking")

After looking through several books and forcing Aziraphale to show him pictures on his phone Crowley settled on cutting his hair much shorter than Aziraphale anticipated. Once the barber had his way with him, Aziraphale almost missed the long copper locks, but the cropped sides and swoop of messy hair atop his head still somehow suited Crowley. It also revealed the black snake tattoo at his temple that Aziraphale had only caught glimpses of before. It curled like an ampersand beside his cheek and Aziraphale wanted to touch it again. Like he had that day in the shower. It had been so warm under his fingers.

What had he been thinking climbing into the shower with Crowley? Washing his hair. It had been an overstep. Unnecessarily intimate. He’d had a moment of weakness and sympathy for someone lost and alone. He tried to convince himself that was all it was.

It was hard to entirely convince himself of that when Crowley sauntered out of the barber’s in his new tight clothes, with his new short hair, looking—Aziraphale hated to think it— _sexy_. Next to Aziraphale’s own frumpy, porridge-colored sweater which no longer fit the way it used to, he looked even more arresting.

Crowley beamed the entire walk back to the car, fiddling with his forelock. “Haven’t had a proper haircut in years. What do you think?”

“It’s very nice,” Aziraphale said, gesturing for him to get in the car. He didn’t want to say _you look bloody handsome and you know it so stop asking_. “Would you like to get lunch on the way home?”

Crowley slipped into the front seat, cool as a cucumber. “I could eat.”

“Do you have any preferences?” Aziraphale asked as he pulled onto the road.

“Nah,” the fey said, kicking one booted foot up on the dash. Aziraphale glared at it. “Whatever you like.”

Aziraphale tried to think of a place. There were so many restaurants he missed from the City, but his appetite often faded quickly these days. He hated the idea of wasting the outing. They’d spent the day helping Crowley get all these nice things and yet this was the thing Aziraphale was hoping he might enjoy and he couldn’t even decide what he wanted to eat.

“Perhaps,” he began and he hated the slight waver in his voice. “Perhaps we could get crepes.”

“Crepes?” Crowley repeated, his boot slipping off the dash. At least it didn’t leave dirt behind.

"Yes," Aziraphale said. His voice wavered. Why did his bloody voice waver? The day had been good. Productive. He needed to eat. He'd been looking forward to having a nice lunch since he'd decided to take Crowley on this trip. "They’re thin...thin sort of pancakes—"

"Don't have to explain," Crowley said, interrupting with a wave of his hand. "Crepes or whatever. I’m easy."

Aziraphale kept his eyes fixed on the road and breathed through the wave of gratitude he felt at not having to justify himself. Crepes would be fine.

* * *

Marie’s was in the suburbs, mom and pop in appearance but Aziraphale knew the quality of the food put some fine dining establishments to shame.

"They’ve really got everything," Crowley said, eyebrows steadily rising as he peered through the foldout menu.

"Yes, well, variety is the spice of life and all that," Aziraphale said, the irony of such a sentiment leaving his mouth was not lost on him. What variety did he have in his life before Crowley had crashed into him?

Crowley sucked on his teeth and tapped his fork before finally shutting the menu and declaring, "Why dont you order for me? You know best anyway."

When the waiter came around, Aziraphale ordered for them. It was a shame not to get wine with the meal but with the drive back to Tadfield, Aziraphale didn't think alcohol was the best idea. He drank so rarely that one glass would probably have him down for the count.

“So,” Crowley began, drawing out the vowel for far too long. “What do we do now? You’ve got me all tarted up and for what?”

“I’m not _tarting you up_ ,” Aziraphale said under his breath. “I’m trying to help you fit in so if you have to live here you won’t... _stick out_.”

“What’s the point though really?” Crowley asked, picking at the table cloth with his butter knife when the waiter returned with their food. “I could lurk or something. It’s not like I can get a job. Be a contributing member of society.”

“I don’t see why not,” Aziraphale said.

Crowley pointed at his face with the knife and bared his teeth to show his fangs. “Hate to remind you, snake eyes. Bit of a fang situation. Scales on occasion. Not exactly fit for employment.”

Aziraphale tried very hard not to roll his eyes and politely dug into the food. It was just as scrumptious as he remembered and he made a small noise of delight as he chewed. He’d forgotten what it was like to really enjoy food after spending so long just eating toast and oranges and whatever he could throw together during his bouts of energy.

He looked at Crowley and found the fey staring at him.

“I’m certain you could find something. Tadfield may be a bit tricky as they’re so suspicious of outsiders and the whole name business won’t exactly work for you. Unless you have a full name you can give?” Aziraphale asked hopefully.

Crowley shook his head. “No. ‘fraid not. That's against the rules.”

“Ah, rules. Could you make one up? Say you were, I don’t know, Fred Crowley?”

“Fred?” Crowley sneered. “Do I look like a Fred?”

“No!” Aziraphale said. “It was just an example.”

Crowley huffed and snatched a bit of bread from the basket to stuff into his mouth. “Doesn’t matter. Can’t do it. Fey name or nothing. That’s how it works.”

“I see,” Aziraphale said.

“That’s why they all go on about name’s having power and the like. You give up your full name to a fey and boom they have you. Vice versa.”

Aziraphale took a sip of water. “Perhaps I can come up with something.”

“It doesn’t matter,” Crowley said. “I don’t want a job. I want—”

“To go back to the forest, I know. We just need to figure out something in the interim.”

Crowley groaned, loud and long, a rather rude noise before stuffing food into his mouth. He chewed sullenly but stopped speaking which afforded Aziraphale at least some time to enjoy his meal in peace.

“So,” Aziraphale began when he’d finished his last bite. “Eden forest.”

He still had so many questions and Crowley was relaxed across from him, eating bits of crepe suzette and looking very pleased.

“What’s it like?

Crowley shrugged and licked his fork. His tongue was just a touch to long and a shiver passed through Aziraphale at the sight. “Dark. Dank. The Prince holds the main hall where we have meetings and get assignments. I had my own sort of...area. I told you. I was trying to settle in.”

“Yes,” Aziraphale said. “But even from the outside, it’s spooky. Everyone in Tadfield is terrified. Is it like that inside?”

Crowley hummed thoughtfully. “I suppose...I started to think of it like a body.”

Aziraphale swallowed as Crowley leaned forward, drawing wide gestures with his hands. "The pit, it's the stomach," he said, pointing to his own flat belly where it disappeared under the table. "Digestion and everything like that. I never knew if it was the people the forest wanted to eat or if it was the fear we were making them feel. The stuff we could make them see. The personal hells we created."

Aziraphale swallowed and grasped for the cup of water on the table, gulping it down but not able to chase away the dry feeling in his throat.

"It has fingers too. Hands," Crowley said. "The outside shifts. Did you ever notice? That's how it gets people lost inside."

"A body is more than just hands and a stomach."

"Ah, yeah," Crowley replied. "The heart."

"What's in the heart?" Aziraphale asked.

Crowley shook his head. "M Not sure but it's there. When you go deep enough, dark enough, you can feel it in there."

"Oh."

"Here's the cheque!"

Aziraphale jumped when the chipper waitress laid the cheque down between them. Crowley plucked it off the table before he could grab it.

"Crowley," he chided. "You can't pay."

"Why not?" Crowley said. "I saw how you paid back in th3 city. Bits and bobs and clever machines. A bit of a hand wave and I can trick that."

"It's _lying_ ," Aziraphale hissed, snatching the bill back to pay with cash, pointedly not using his card.

"Fine, but you're going to have to let me treat you eventually," Crowley said. "I don't want to owe you everything."

Aziraphale wondered if he really meant that.

* * *

When they returned to Tadfield, twilight stretched over the forest, the sight of the trees newly ominous now that Aziraphale _knew_.

He shut off the car and helped carry in the shopping, feeling a familiar heaviness begin to build in his limbs.

Crowley had been bothering him for over a week and he had been in a desperate search for a solution. Aziraphale had created a goal for them to complete and they had done it and now it was over and he was home and what else was he to do?

He dropped the shopping in the living room and looked at the makeshift wall of bookshelves, the boxes still in the corners of the cottage. How had he managed any of this?

Crowley dropped into a crouch beside the fire and began to unpack the bags. Leaving him to it, Aziraphale walked into the kitchen and filled a cup of water. He stared out the back window over his garden as he sipped at the tepid liquid. The fields stretched on into the dark trees. _The body_.

What would they do? Was Crowley going to live here until Aziraphale finally collapsed under the weight of his failed life? It was a stupid plan

Setting down the half empty cup, Aziraphale leaned heavily against the sink. It did nothing to relieve him. What would he do tonight? Tomorrow? Let Crowley demand things of him? Rule his life? Ruin it?

Feeling overwhelmed, he stumbled down the hall and into the bathroom. He shut and locked the door. He took several deep breaths and ran the taps. Goodness gracious, what was wrong with him?

There was no end to this. Not really. This was what he’d been trying to escape in the City. The cloying smog was still in his nostrils. The smell of his walk home every day from the clinic. He’d hated it then. He hated now. He didn’t want a life like this. Chained to some _thing_ with no end in sight.

His breath came heavy and sharp and he wondered if he’d ever have the strength to put an end to any of it. He’d just made a list, hadn’t he? Somewhere in the house was a straight razor…

A drip of blood on the porcelain of the sink and all these worries would be gone. He could see it easily. The red could run orange under the rush of water, then pink, then nothing at all. Washed away.

A light tapping at the door. "Aziraphale? Mind if I make tea?”

Aziraphale dashed at his eyes and the vision cleared. He’d gone too deep in his own thoughts. He didn’t want— “Go ahead!”

"Do you want any?"

"I—" Aziraphale cleared his throat. "Yes. That would be nice.”

He pulled himself together and left the bathroom. Once in the kitchen, it was all he could do to sag into his old dining room chair, mind curiously empty. The cold tabletop warmed under the flats of his hands as he stared out the window in the backdoor.

A few moments later, Crowley presented him with a cup of perfectly reasonable tea. Aziraphale stared at it.

"Won't bite you,'' Crowley said, slurping at his own tea.

Aziraphale started and took a sip. "Thank you, Crowley."

Crowley looked at him. His glasses had disappeared off somewhere and without them Aziraphale felt a strange thrill of perception, being seen.

"Are you sick?" Crowley asked.

"What?"

Crowley said simply, "You look ill."

"That's rude."

"Maybe you need to sleep. You slept an awful lot before."

"Maybe I was tired," Aziraphale retorted.

"Are you tired now?"

"Maybe I’m tired because you’re exhausting,” Aziraphale said, irritation rising by the second. He was tired and Crowley wasn't helping.

Crowley raised his eyebrows and sipped at his tea, leaning back in his chair. "Then go to bed."

Aziraphale hesitated. "I should set up the mattress for you and—"

"I can sleep on the floor again. S’no trouble. Bed for you. Now," Crowley said, jerking his head in the direction of the bedroom.

Aziraphale didn't even brush his teeth before crawling under the blanket.

* * *

"Oi."

Something pointy jabbed him in the shoulder and he peeled open his gritty eyelids to a far too sunny room. It was surely afternoon and there was Crowley and Aziraphale was still tired.

He rolled over, bringing the blankets tighter around him as he shut his eyes again.

"Oi," Crowley said more forcefully, jabbing him again.

"What?" Aziraphale groaned. He slapped Crowley's hand away but didn't bother to sit up. He felt miserable.

"Eat," Crowley said and the rustling of blankets was accompanied by the smell of...cooked potatoes?

Aziraphale rolled over and opened his eyes. "Where on earth did you get potatoes to cook?"

"I bought them at the greengrocers," Crowley said like Aziraphale was a fool. "And before you snap at me, I wore sunglasses and I used your money. No stealing. No tricks."

"I don't _always snap at you_."

They smelled wonderful and the scent reminded Aziraphale he hadn't eaten in... "What time is it?"

"2 pm."

Aziraphhale glanced out his window and saw the bright sun over the yellowing fields. Another wasted day. He'd been doing so well.

Crowley scooted the plate across the sheet and the fork teetered. "Eat," he said again.

Aziraphale looked down and when he looked back down Crowley was leaving. "I'll be in the living room. "

Aziraphale ate and when he was done, he found he was thirsty so he went into the kitchen to get water.

Crowley was sitting at the kitchen table, drinking tea and eating an orange. The ripped up peel was scattered over the table without care. The strong, citrus smell was everywhere. “Feeling better?”

“I don’t...a bit,” Aziraphale admitted.

Crowley nodded decisively. “Good. I have some things I’d like to do.”

* * *

They finished setting up the air mattress that night and Crowley helped him build a fire. It all had the air of a rather cozy sleepover even if neither of them knew how long it would last.

Crowley plopped onto his back on the mattress, crossing his ankles and staring at the ceiling. "You know what I miss?"

Aziraphale settled into his chair and rearranged his cardigan. "What?"

"Alcohol. Wine in particular. Loved wine. I used to steal the good stuff too."

Aziraphale blinked and thought of the box of chateau neuf de pape he had packed away years ago in hope of a celebration. He’d brought it with him despite having nothing to celebrate. It was a strange moment of optimism perhaps. A hold over from old habits. From a younger, brighter outlook.

“I might...have something like that,” he ventured and Crowley sat bolt upright, tossing aside his sunglasses without a care.

“C’mon, Aziraphale, let’s get drunk. When was the last time you got properly pissed?”

“Um.”

Crowley grinned and it was a little fangy, but Aziraphale had the feeling it was in good fun rather than in an effort to scare him.

“Oh, alright,” he huffed, pulling himself into a standing position. “I’ll have to dig it out.”

Crowley followed him into the pile of unopened boxes in the corner of the living room. “Oh it’s in a box,” he said thoughtfully.

“What were you looking for?” Aziraphale asked as he popped open a likely contender.

“Thought I’d tempt you with a ready bottle,” Crowley said. “You know, _Oh, Aziraphale, look what I found. Fancy a glass._ But you didn’t have any in your kitchen.”

“So you planned this?” Aziraphale asked, stomach feeling oddly warm. And his heart too.

“Well,” Crowley said, drawing out the word as he leaned over Aziraphale to peer into the box. “You’ve been in a _mood."_

Aziraphale stopped looking through the box, offended, ready to defend himself but when he turned to snipe at Crowley, the fey put his hands up. "Not trying to start a row. Just when I had a bad day— had a lot of them to be honest— me and my mates used to get a bit sozzled and that made things feel a bit better. Thought it might help."

Aziraphale deflated. "You want to help me."

"You've helped me," Crowley pointed out, looking at his feet and shoving his hands in his pockets. No mean feat considering how tiny those pockets were.

“That’s not...that’s not exactly true,” Aziraphale said, abandoning the box and falling back on his haunches to look up at Crowley. A week ago he had thought the fey’s eyes a sort of putrid yellow but right then, they seemed like warm honey. Amber. Gold.

Crowley dropped down beside him and dragged over another box. “Odd definition of helping you’ve got.”

The box rustled as Crowley opened it and Aziraphale sighed. “If I’d really helped, you’d be back in the forest, doing...I don’t know. Doing what you want. Torturing people I suppose.”

Crowley glanced at him, mouth forming a thin line. He didn’t say anything before turning his attention back to the box. Letting out an excited whoop, he withdrew a bottle and then another. “Wa-fucking-hoo.”

Aziraphale took one of the bottles and inspected the labels. Here they were. Not exactly the celebration he imagined but at least he had company. It had been a very long time since he’d had someone to share anything with.

“Let me get the corkscrew and some glasses,” Aziraphale grunted as he levered himself to his feet. His old bones creaked and shifted, complaining just enough to remind him he was alive.

* * *

“So a veteri..vetra...animal doctor,” Crowley said, slurring his way through the question. They’d ended up sitting on the floor since Aziraphale had only the one armchair and it didn't seem fair for only one of them to have comfortable seating. One of Aziraphale’s legs was asleep but he didn’t mind. He was well past tipsy and his belly was warm and at some point Crowley had put together a very nice cheese plate. “How’d you end up doing that?”

“Loved animals,” Aziraphale said. “Loved ‘em. I wanted to—I wanted to take care of them as best I was able.”

“Did you like it?’ Crowley asked with another slurp from his cup. Aziraphale hadn’t been able to find his wine glasses so they were drinking from tea cups. Crowley’s had a print of little pink flowers. Aziraphale had little angel wings.

“For a while,” Aziraphale said. “But it wasn’t...there were unsavory parts. Animals die, Crowley. And I had to kill them.”

Crowley frowned and retrieved the bottle between them. At some point their legs had tangled slightly, Crowley’s ankles hooking over his. The pointed absence of heat that followed his body had disappeared and Aziraphale realized that he just needed to absorb the warmth around him and once he did, he was rather warm himself.

“It surely wasn’t as bad as all that.”

“I hated it.”

It was the first time Aziraphale admitted it out loud, but it was certainly the truth.

“Not always,” he rushed to add because that was true too. “Just towards the end.”

Crowley nodded as if in complete understanding and didn’t ask for any more details. Aziraphale found he appreciated that quite a bit.

“What about you?” Aziraphale asked, holding out his glass for a top up. “What’s it like? Being a fey? Living in _fairy land_?”

“First,” Crowley said, narrowing his eyes. ‘S’not called _fairyland_. Second, I haven’t had much of a chance to enjoy it. I’ve been doing Hastur and Beelzebub’s dirty work for a hundred years now.”

“But you still want to go back,” Aziraphale wondered, more to himself than anything.

Crowley’s eyes, previously unfocused, snapped to his. “Before I was bound I didn’t have any sort of life. It was the workhouse or the streets. The forest has been a home. A shitty one. But a home. So yeah, I want to go back.”

Aziraphale had many more questions, but he returned Crowley’s earlier favor and didn’t ask for any more details.

They drank in silence and then Crowley spoke. “If you could be any animal, what would you choose?”

Aziraphale blinked, taken off guard. “Why on earth are you asking me that?”

Crowley rolled his head on his neck. “Take a wild guess.”

“I suppose you mean to tell me you _chose_ to be a snake?” Aziraphale asked with a laugh.

“I _did_ choose a snake,” Crowley said defensively.

“A ring-necked snake,” Aziraphale asked incredulously.

“Well, no,” Crowley replied, looking away. “Beelzebub took some liberties. They were pretty peeved about having to bind me to the forest and when I chose snake I meant more you know a big fuck-off snake. Something scary. Not…”

“A cute little snake,” Aziraphale finished, a smile creeping over his face.

“Not cute,” Crowley said petulantly.

“I think you’re very cute,” Aziraphale teased.

Crowley’s cheeks were turning red.

“Your little tongue was _very_ cute,” Aziraphale needled. “And you were barely thicker than my finger.”

Crowley mumbled something derisive into his cup as Aziraphale said, “Just a wee little thing.”

“Alright, yes, I’m a tiny cute snake. I get it. Now hush up and drink your wine. You’re getting too sober and it’s no fun.”

Aziraphale laughed and took another sip of his drink, realizing that, despite himself, he was having quite a bit of fun.

“And?” Crowley prompted.

“And what?”

“And you? What would you choose? That was the whole point of this line of inquiry before you decided to mock me.”

“Oh yes,” Aziraphale said, “I suppose I’d choose a cat. I always loved treating cats. They seemed to have nice lives. Doing as they pleased.”

Crowley barked out a laugh, tipping his head back and drawing attention to the long column of his throat. “You would choose a cat.”

“And why is that?” Aziraphale asked, not liking Crowley’s tone.

“Right bastards cats are.”

Aziraphale kicked at Crowley’s shin and the fey just laughed. Aziraphale found he rather liked when Crowley laughed.


End file.
